


Heliotrope

by AmarieMelody



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Abuse, Altaïr Appreciation Week, Alty & Adha are my babies, Anti-Arab Racism, Anti-Black Racism, Black!Adha, Child Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hella Lotta OC Queer Characters of Color, Hurt/Comfort, In-depth Adha characterization, In-depth Altaïr characterization, Mental Coercion, Mental Health Issues, Modern Assassins, Modern Retelling, Oh yeah and this is flashback heavy, Racism, Raqs Sharqi dancing, This Story Is Almost Entirely Characters of Color, Very flashback heavy, War (Modern-day AU of Crusades), islamaphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4376696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmarieMelody/pseuds/AmarieMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr looks up from the three corpses of the Sofian family tearfully. "Mentor? If I don't mess up like that? If I don't do anything wrong...does that mean Adha can stay with me and we'll be happy?" </p><p>Al Mualim smiles softly down at the boy and lightly strokes his cheek. "Of course, Altaïr. So long as you always stay my most perfect boy and so long as you stay mine, so Adha may stay yours. Adha may live." </p><p> </p><p>A modern AU retelling, with the twist that Adha was alive & around from the beginning and when Altaïr goes after the nine Templars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: Masyaf Skies, Chapter 1: The Man in the White Hoodie

**Author's Note:**

> Umm...hi. This fic is technically six years in the making, as I met & fell in love with Altaïr Ibn-La Ahad when I was seventeen (I'm a dinosaur, I know). I was imagining him and Adha long, long before I ever thought I'd be brave enough to write fanfiction. I've always loved Altaïr; I've always been intensely curious about him and have seen him as a pistachio shell to crack open and find all the secrets inside about what makes him tick. I've also always been fascinated to answer the question of who Adha is and what she and Altaïr mean to each other. So this fic is extremely close to my heart. These questions have stayed with me and you see attempting to answer them in this fic. This is just an in-depth modern retelling, with the twist that Adha is alive and around when Altaïr goes after the nine Templars. 
> 
> Also note that Adha is Black, specifically Mahas (a Nubian ethnic group) in this story. 
> 
> One of the main reasons it took me so long do write and finally publish the first chapter of this fic is because we Alty fangirls seem to be so few and far in between. There's very, very little love that I see for Altaïr. So, please, if you are a big Alty fangirl and _especially_ if you're a black fangirl nerd like me, please shout out. Please let me know you're there. I often feel very much alone being a huge Altaïr fangirl and so publishing this is terrifying to me. It's like sending a message in a bottle out into an abyss and you don't know if there's a coast on the other side for the message to reach. 
> 
> So please, if you like this first chapter, please let me know. Please talk to me.
> 
> And beware: this story goes **very, very** hard. I cover a lot in this story and to put it all in the tags above would be a bit messy. So, for particularly difficult chapters, I will put specific trigger warnings (like the one you see below) and please do not hesitate to let me know if there should be more warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings for this chapter** : Anti-Roma/Romani racism & violence, use of g***y slur

**Damascus, Late March, Neo-1186**

Syona looks at her new home and sees. 

She sees because she must. 

In the glassless, carved-out windows, she sees the small meadow that she and her friends would play in. She can smell the freshness of the flowers, the way they would gently sway in the breeze. All those colors. Blue. Red. Pink. Green. Orange. So many colors. Syona and her friends would spin around and ‘round until the colors bled together and make the greatest whirlwind they ever saw. She would spin and spin and spin and feel so dizzy with her hijab starting to get loose, staring at all that colorful brightness. They were never allowed to pluck the flowers, but they would all imagine being able to pluck just the petals and throwing them up to the sky like homemade confetti, or even fireworks. 

They only got to see fireworks on TV, but Syona and her friends saw plenty of confetti during the harvest celebrations that their families went to almost every other year. She remembers that Papa had to explain to her not to catch them in her mouth because they weren’t candy and they could buy a little bag of candy at the bazaar if she behaved for the day. 

In the dirt floor, she sees the small toy box Papa bought for her. It was just big enough that she could fit in it and play car-racing until she was four-and-a-half-years old. Syona’s toy box was the shiniest in all the world, with her name lovingly carved deep into the wood by Papa. 

Papa told her how he did it and it’s one of her favorite-ever stories he ever tells her. When he first saw it at the baazar, he asked the man to hold it for a while until he could afford it. The man did hold the toy box and Papa got to buy it after a few months. He bought it and he went to one of their neighbor’s, the Dhawan family, to make it better. Papa said that when he got the toy box, it was old, splintery and faded in color. Papa spent even more months making the toy box better. He did things like ‘sanding’ and ‘planing’ to the wood with Ms. Yauvani to make it as smooth and shiny as possible. Then, he carved her name and tiny little suns all around it, too. Per Papa magic, he finished it in time for her birthday. 

It was one of the best birthday gifts Syona ever got. She put all her toys in it-her doll, Prithi, her Legos, her two race cars, her paints and brushes and Prithi’s clothes and hairbrush. Sometimes, if she was lucky and smart at the same time, she could sneak in an extra baklava or put the clothes that she didn’t feel like folding and putting away into her toy box without Papa finding out. 

The eight-year-old slips her shoes on her feet and her hijab on her head. She ties her hijab carefully. When she puts on the dark pink headdress in this strange place called the poor district of Damascus, she sees the women over her village. They burst as stars across her mind, in all their different sizes. Their different shades of dark skin. Their different voices. Their different hijabs. Syona thinks of their hijabs, already adding to the impossible color and beauty of those women. Ms. Deepnita’s is a red-and-black polka dot pattern. Ms. Ahkilah’s is bright moss green. Ms. Ojal’s is a rainbow and tie-dye like. There are so many, many more Syona sees as she carefully secures the pin on her hijab. 

The Damascus sun raises higher, putting more light into the small, cramped house. Syona fastens her shoes and double checks her reflection in the cracked mirror over the cracked sink. She turns off the flickering and static-prone TV showing Burka Avenger. She picks up the plain woven basket that’s nearly as big as her whole midsection and puts Prithi with her broken arm inside of it. 

She wishes Papa would be able to fix Prithi like he used to again. 

Syona wishes for many, many things. 

The last thing is making sure the door is locked when she steps out of the house.

These Damascus people are strange. Just so, so strange to her eyes. They weave in and out the endless, overlapping streams that are made of their bodies. They move like they never wanted to leave their homes in the first place and like they couldn’t be bothered with the actual, enjoyable journey to get to wherever they were going. 

No one stops to wish good mornings. No one smiles at a stranger. No one browses just to browse. No one…does any activity outside of what is needed. 

Syona merges uneasily into the stream, holding her basket close to her small body. She’s given up on trying to see above the tall bodies around her; instead, she looks around them to better see where she’s going. But even looking she does half-heartedly-she’s already been down these roads so often before that she all but has them memorized. 

She wishes fiercely that she didn’t memorize them. She wishes that there never was the time to. 

In these people she sees Mr. Jamal playing mancala in front of his house with his son across the way. She sees Ms. Iman leading her donkey-pulled cart to collect the hay for the morning. She sees Ms. Shuri going to peoples’ houses to make them feel better with her bulging bags of yucky herbs and potions. 

She sees her Papa, waking up even earlier than her to make her breakfast before its school time. Syona has never been to “real” school. Papa, like a lot of the other parents in her village, wouldn’t let her go; they only put children like her in “special education” classes no matter if she can sound out long words correctly or knows what twelve times three is. And when they put you in those “special education” classes, they treat you the worst. Syona heard the stories, saw what happened. One boy, Bijou, once came home with bleeding knuckles from a ruler because he spoke out of turn. A girl, Kana, came home with a test where everything she got wrong was minus five points, while the other children only got minus two points. 

No, Papa wouldn’t let her go through that. No matter how much she used to throw tantrums, he never budged. Syona remembers when, he too, would hear about and see what happened to kids like her when they went to the “real” schools. He would get so mad that he would send her outside to play because he had to share “grown-up words” with the other grown-ups. She only ever saw him get that mad when talking about the war and the plights of their people near and far from them. 

But she did love when Papa taught her in the morning. At least four days out of the week, after breakfast and Fajr prayer and before her chores, he sat down with her on their couch (she lovingly called their couch “Thready” because it was threadbare) and teach her. Syona could always pick the order she wanted to do her subjects, so long as they covered all of them in the day. She almost always chose math first. She loved math, still does. To Syona, math is always like some endless magic. You can put these numbers together, with these symbols in-between them, and you _always_ get _this_ answer. No matter what. Then you try different numbers with different symbols, and you might get a different answer. She gasped in delight when Papa showed her a magic trick-you can use different numbers and different symbols to get the _same_ answer. He showed her that three plus two equals five. But there are a lot of different ways to get to five other than three plus two. You can get there by eleven minus six. Four plus one. Ten minus five itself. 

Then there are even more ways to get to five when you start multiplying and dividing. 

Syona loved it. 

She would paint the numbers and symbols onto her vase in different colors. Papa’s chest nearly burst, it was so full of pride. 

Papa was proud of her for having a love for a subject and encouraged her. They weren’t allowed in the nearest library (which was a ways away anyway), but Papa would buy her books on math as extra special, rare presents when he could. And her village passed around and shared books. They found a way. 

Syona’s people always found a way. 

At least until their way was taken from them. Now there are no books. No paper. No pencils. No time or energy for Papa to teach her. 

Just the dirt floor to draw and solve her own math problems by herself. 

Just Syona and Papa in this hazy poor district of Damascus. 

She can tell that she reaches the Souk al-Silaah simply by the way she’s pushed and shoved more than she’s just brushed against. She holds her basket close to her chest and checks her pocket to make sure the market money is still there. It’s only the secure feel of her hijab on her head that makes her feel that she can weather this, she can get through this. That makes her feel protected. For over four months, she’s been doing this mostly by herself at least twice a week. 

But she hates this place. She hates it with every fiber in her small body until the hatred nearly burns whatever hope could be in her heart. Nearly burns at the edges of the memories that keep her from screaming at the plain, whitewash stone walls that are everywhere in this poor district. 

The Souk al-Silaah is where Papa now works, where Papa is taken away from her six out of seven days. She knows he works in the worst part-in that weapons factory, that weapons factory that is the tallest building in this part of the city. The black, putrid smoke that rises from the top of its engine things make Papa cough like Syona’s never heard him cough before. He gets paid even less money than he did when he was a farmer and he works really, really long hours. She hates it. 

And she doesn’t understand how they can afford all these different billboard things that are posted high up on tall pillars in just about every corner of the big market. They’re the animated kind of billboards too-the ones Syona’s people never saw anywhere near their village. And these billboards constantly show the faces of that Alaat guy and that Tamir guy and other guys that make Papa talk those “grown-up words”. They can afford these things, but they can’t afford to give Papa good pay for his work. Or even that insurance stuff that lets you see the doctor and not have to pay a lot of money. 

It is not fair. 

Syona looks around at the various stalls, offered merchandise and strange, bustling people and tries to summon another good memory from home. She loved to paint just as much, if not more than, she loved math. She would paint the vases with her friends, the vases that a lot of their neighbors handmade at home. One of her greatest dreams was to open up a store all her own and sell her painted vases to make people happy. She always painted really, really pretty stuff. And then Papa could do that thing where you don’t work anymore because you’re too old even earlier because Syona would have her own vase painting business by then to support _him_ for a change. It’d be perfect. 

But no, there was nothing but this Damascus now. 

Still clutching her basket to her chest (and double-checking that Prithi is comfortably upright), she heads to the usual food stall. There is already a line made of three grown-ups in front and Syona gets in behind them. She hopes that no one trips over her, and then yells those grown-up words at her for being in the way. 

She double-checks her pocket again for her money. Her fingers gently comb through Prithi’s dark brown hair, comforting the doll as she wishes she’d be comforted. As the eight-year-old waits in line, she wishes that there was a stall around here for doll repairs. Why was there no stall for doll repairs? She takes a deep, deep breath and starts subtracting twelve from one-hundred in her head. When she gets the answer eighty-eight, she multiplies six by fourteen and continues giving herself math problems as she waits her turn. 

The line moves up one, making Syona feel just a little less in-the-way. 

Thirty-six minus seven is twenty-nine. 

Forty-eight divided by eight is six-

It’s over the din of vendors’ advertising, feet hitting the pavement, customers arguing, grown-ups grumbling, and machines humming that Syona hears it. 

“Follow Alaat! Support Alaat!” 

“Re-elect Alaat for People’s Council! Take back your jobs and homes from the gypsies!” 

“Re-elect Alaat and reclaim the stability you earned for your family from the gypsies! Do not let the gypsies take over your lives! You can do it with just one vote-the right vote!” 

“Only one man will legislate to see to the gypsy problem that plagues us all! His name is Alaat!” 

“Vote for Alaat!” 

Syona’s heart drops from her chest to pool icily in her tummy. She forces her hand to keep stroking Prithi’s head and slowly turns to look at the people who roared those words. They are men, four of them, and they are heavily armed. The guns, knives, and exploding pinecone things on their persons shine like a loud warning in the hot sun. In their hands are brightly-colored flyers and pamphlets that they wave around. She catches a glimpse of one of them-they have Alaat’s face on them. Another glimpse of another flyer shows one of those exaggerated cartoons of her people hunching over a crystal ball and surrounded by sparkling purple draperies. 

She was asleep when it happened because Papa made her drink a potion from Ms. Shuri’s collection. All the other kids had to drink it and Syona fell into the deepest sleep she ever had in Papa’s arms. And when she woke up, Papa and she were here. In Damascus. With none of their people close by. 

Syona was asleep when it happened. 

But she knows-she _knows_ ¬-in her heart that the people that tore them from their home had to look like these men now. Voices shouting and weapons blaring. 

She knows. 

She asked Papa what a “gypsy” is. 

The look on his face was so…scary…before it softened and he let her sit on his lap while he explained. “Gypsy” is a bad word. It is a word that mean, racist (he had to tell her what a racist was, too) people like to call them and to make their lives harder than it should ever be. It is a word that is nothing more than a lie because it relates to the word “gypped”, and that word means to cheat or steal from someone. 

They are not “gypsies”. 

They are Romani. Muslim Romani. 

She is not to respond to the word “gypsy”. 

But what Papa said only confused her more. Why would they “gyp” someone? They would never cheat or steal from someone ever; they were never even close to rich, but they could feed themselves just fine through honest ways back home. And if Papa was proud of them being Romani and that had nothing to do with being a “gypsy”, then how come he made Syona always remember to say that they’re Desi here? He even wrote “Desi” on those millions of citizen papers he had to fill out. 

It was one of the few times in her life when Papa told her to just “do as she’s told” and “no more questions”. 

Syona can’t help but watch as a lot of grown-ups go to take flyers and pamphlets. Even the woman in line in front of her gives up her place to go and take one. She tears her eyes away from the scene before she makes accidental eye contact. Slowly, her heart gets warmer and lifts itself back from her tummy. Her hand finds Prithi’s hair again while numbers and symbols and painting ideas reform in her mind. 

“Re-elect Alaat for People’s Council!” 

“Take action now! Don’t let yourself get gypped out of your rights! Vote for Alaat!” 

“Only one man to solve the gypsy problem! Alaat! Make your vote count the right way!” 

Syona closes her deep umber eyes, keeping her hand on Prithi’s warm head. She doesn’t understand this word, this word that they call them but doesn’t apply at all. She doesn’t know why people have to be so mean and racist when she and her people did nothing wrong. 

She’s so, so tired of not understanding. 

She keeps her eyes closed until the sound of the men’s roaring and the flyers and pamphlets flapping and the people agreeing with them and the people saying nothing are just the added background noise to the din of the Souk al-Silaah. 

Twelve divided by four is three. 

Sixteen times three is forty-eight. 

Five times eighty is four-hundred…

It’s her turn to order her groceries for the week. The woman looks at her like she’s just yet another uninteresting crack in the white walls of this place. “What do you want, child?” 

“These, please.” Syona hands the woman the short grocery list that Papa made from her basket. 

The woman rolls her eyes and snatches the piece of paper from Syona’s hand. She mutters, “…Damn cretins today…”

Syona doesn’t wince. At least this grown-up isn’t calling her a gypsy. She watches as the woman compiles her order into a neat package that will only just fit into her basket and not squish Prithi. Her little heart pounds heavily in her chest as she considers talking to this woman, this grown-up that looks just like every other grown-up here with her tired, lined face, pinching mouth and dull eyes. For so long she hasn’t had anyone to talk to but Prithi, it feels like. No one to talk to at all. 

But Papa told her not to talk to strangers. She just has to finish her errands out here, then hurry home to finish her chores there. Then she can play with Prithi, practice her math in the dirt floor and sneak a baklava. 

The woman is done packaging up her order and sets it on the creaky wooden counter. She holds her hand far out, nearly touching Syona’s nose. 

Syona fishes into her pocket, careful not to drop any coins or bills in the street. For one to drop money in the street of this part of Damascus is to never see it again. A harsh, impatient sigh sounds behind her as she struggles one-handed. She hands the woman her money and watches as she counts it over and over again. Another impatient sigh. Syona finally gets her package and she grunts a little as she tries to step out of the line while wrestling it to fit into her basket and avoiding squishing Prithi. She manages and, weighted down much more, starts on her way.

A man standing beside her pulls out his cellphone. He frowns down at the device, muttering. “…Fuck is my signal…?” 

Syona looks around her and sees just about every other grown-up with a personal electronic do the same thing. She can pick out snippets of what they’re saying. No signals. Buttons not working. Screens going off. Wifi connections cut off. 

Alaat and Tamir’s faces on the big billboards above flicker once, twice…and finally turn into static. What few cars that are driving in the narrow streets _chug, chug, chug_ until they stop and their drivers and passengers scream out frustrated grown-up words. 

The hairs on the back of her neck rise and she clutches her basket so tight that her arms ache. Her wide eyes frantically scan the grown-up bodies all around her to understand, to see. But she can’t; everyone is so much taller, so much bigger than her-

The sound of the men’s roaring and the flyers and pamphlets flapping and the people agreeing with them and the people saying nothing are suddenly gone. 

She cradles her basket closer to her and struggles to turn around and see why she can’t hear them in the background anymore. But there’s an even deeper crowd of grown-up bodies around her, easily pushing and shoving her out of their way. She’s looking and looking and looking, but she can’t _see_. 

Whereas the roaring men made her heart pool icily in her tummy, now her heart is jumping white-hot in her throat and she’s short of breath in seconds. Her little hands tremble on the basket’s handle until it’s a struggle to keep from dropping it to the dusty earth. Her wide umber eyes frantically scan for the danger that she can feel in her bones. The sound of her own breath is as loud as her roaring heartbeat in her ears.

She trembles in her skin as her body struggles to decide if it wants to stay and see, or fly out of here as fast as-

 _“Hashshashin!”_

It is that cry that sets the world igniting around Syona. Screams and cries and wails and grown-up words tear through the air as grown-ups run every which way. What were once taller, bigger bodies become a mess of streaks and blurs. Explosive gunfire sounds above all the human exclamations, only adding to the rank chaos and panic. 

Syona hears two or three of the screams end in…gasps and gurgles. 

Men sharply bark orders at the frightened, fleeing people. The sound of gunfire increases until Syona swears that she can feel the bullets riddling her own little body. It’s that feeling that finally propels her legs to move as fast as they can. But no matter how fast she moves her little legs, she can’t go nearly as fast as the bigger, stronger, faster grown-ups around her.

 _“It’s a demon! Straight from hell!”_

_“Murderous monster!”_

_“Get out of here!”_

_“It’s a damn_ Hashshashin _!”_

_Hashshashin._

There is not a person in all the Holy Land that doesn’t know to run and run quickly when a _Hashshashin_ is nearby.

Syona cries out as she’s pushed and shoved to the point where she may have a bruise later, Prithi and some of the groceries nearly falling out in the process. She’s panting harder than she ever has as she works to make her short legs move as fast as the whirlwind of grown-ups around her. Twice the eight-year-old is shoved so hard that she were it not for another grown-up body close by for her to bump against, she’d fall to the dusty, scorched earth. Even more gunfire and screams rip through the air and she pushes her tiring legs to go even faster. People trip and crash and fall into and around each other as they abandon whatever they were doing and flee for their lives. 

The _Hashshashin_ …she doesn’t want the _Hashshashin_ to get her…she doesn’t want the _Hashshashin_ to kill her too…

She did nothing wrong to the _Hashshashin_. She wasn’t a gypsy to it. She didn’t cheat or steal from it. She did nothing wrong, but Papa and everyone else say that _Hashshashin_ don’t care what you did or didn’t do. Don’t care who you are, what you are, how old you are. They just want blood, they just want death. Because they’re mean and evil. 

But Syona doesn’t want to get hurt. She doesn’t want to die. She just wants to go home. She wants Papa. All she wants is to go home and be with Papa, where there are no _Hashshashin_ to try and get her. No _Hashshashin_ …

She runs and runs until sweat blurs her eyesight and the world spins more and more as she can’t breathe. It’s impossible for her to know how far away from the danger she’s gotten, much less exactly where she is. But she must’ve gotten far enough away because most of the grown-ups here aren’t running; they’re quickly walking, darting looks all around, sometimes clutching each other. Syona looks closely and sees that...the people here are not really moving in any one direction. Just moving, and quickly. She sees more of those heavily armed men, but they rush away from this area, not towards it. She can’t hear any more gunfire or screams close by.

The _Hashshashin_ can’t be here. 

She’s safe. 

But…she’s probably far, far away from the house. Farther away than her short legs feel like carrying her. Tears come to her eyes, mingling and stinging with the sweat, some of it soaking through her hijab, through her shirt. She wants to be in that uncomfortable dirt floor, white stonewash shack of a house so bad that it hurts. But she’s too tired to even think of moving, to even think of figuring out where she is so she can find her way home. 

Syona is just so, so _tired_. 

Her heart slowing and her breathing now just a little short, she stumbles along on trembling legs. She needs a safe space to rest now, just for a little while. Papa will understand-no, even better, Papa will hold her for a long, long time because of the _Hashshashin_ being here today. He’ll fuss over her and scold her, like when she was smaller and liked to crawl in-between horses’ legs and hide in hay stacks. And she’ll love it because it’ll feel just like before. Yes, she can look forward to that tonight. 

A small, sad smile comes to her chapped lips as two more tears spill from her eyes. She’d clutch her basket to her for comfort, but her arms are having a hard time just carrying it. 

So, so _tired_ …

Syona spots a bench. 

A person is sitting on the bench. 

From the body, Syona thinks the person sitting on the bench is a man. 

Whereas everybody else keeps fast walking to and fro and not even glancing at this person, Syona can’t help but openly at him. He wears a plain, blinding white hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head. As she is a little to the side and behind him, she can only guess that his pants are black and just a little on the baggy side, with lots and lots of pockets. His booted feet are planted firmly on the ground. 

He is hunched over with his head bowed and his legs spread slightly apart. His arms are probably resting atop his legs. So still is he that she can barely make out the expanding and contracting of his torso while he breathes. He could be sleeping, on a bench, in broad daylight while a _Hashshashin_ is on the loose. This must be an old man. A very, very tired old man. 

How _calm_ he is. How…how _quiet_. 

In the mild chaos of this part of Damascus’ poor district, this man on the bench is his own steady island in a raging sea. Syona is rude, openly staring at him just a little longer as she sways on her feet. No matter if another group of guards dart past, shouting grown-up words, no matter if a parent and their child make as wide an arc as possible around other people, no matter if two or three people stop to loudly talk over each other about what they saw the _Hashshashin_ do…

This very old, very tired man still sleeps quietly on the bench. 

Syona is sleepy too. Her limbs hurt, her chest hurts. Her face is awash with tears and sweat. Her mind is so tired that she cannot come up with another math problem to comfort herself. She could figure out how to get home from here, but in her heart she is lost. 

Because this is not home. 

Her little heart does summersaults in her chest as she thinks about doing something that Papa always told her to never, ever do. Her little feet shuffle forward on the dirt and gravel ground. Her little hands clutch the handle of her basket tightly. 

She’s not supposed to-

“E-excuse me, _effendi_?” Her voice is small from fear and cracked from thirst. 

She’s startled when the old man seamlessly turns his hooded head towards her. He must not have been asleep after all. She still can’t see his face, the edges of the hood hiding it from view. No other part of his body moves and he says nothing. 

Syona’s heart does backflips along with the summersaults. She can’t believe he heard her, is responding to her. She’s stunned almost to the point of being as still as him. But he’s waiting, his head still turned towards her. Terrified of a reprimand or being ignored all over again, she blurts out, “May I…I…sit here? Please?” 

In the next second, she’s worried that she should explain herself to him. What sleepy old man wants a little “cretin” like her to sit next to him? Or worse, maybe he doesn’t like her because she’s Ro-

He slides over to sit at the very edge of the bench. 

Syona feels dizzy, like all the breath has been knocked out of her chest. She’s still too surprised to properly thank him as she staggers over to take the seat. With a relieved sigh, she plops down on the hot seat. She carefully places her basket on the ground between her and the old man’s legs, but picks up Prithi to cradle in her arms. Her eyes close and she slowly rocks back and forth. 

A better, sweeter sleepiness comes over the eight-year-old now. She finds herself quickly becoming attached to the old man’s still calmness. They’re sitting a respectful distance away on the bench, but he radiates that peace like the sun radiates heat. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it (and may have fallen back asleep by now), but Syona lets it envelop her, soothe her. 

A few minutes later, she has the energy to wipe her face on her sleeve. She reaches down into her basket and takes out a small juice box. The straw is hot and the juice is warm, but she’s too thirsty to care. She tries her best not to slurp loudly. When she’s done, she places the empty box back in her basket and glances at the old, sleeping man. 

She glances at him many, many times. 

She first notices his…bracelet. It’s the longest and biggest bracelet she’s ever seen. He has another one on his opposite arm too. They’re made of a…strange kind of black leather that Syona’s never seen before; they are thick and dull, not shining in the sun, yet completely clean like they’re brand new. Crossed horizontally over the bracelets are three tinier bracelets that are probably for holding it in place The bracelets expand as long as his whole forearm, ending at the fingerless black gloves on his hands. In the very middle of them is a large plain symbol that looks like…like one of those salad tongs people in the middle and rich districts can afford to use. And below it is like...something of a thin half-crescent moon. It is a pretty symbol. 

His hoodie really is blinding white. Her eyes rake over it, but she can’t find a single stain. He has pockets on either side, where one usually puts their hands in. She can barely count two very, very faint wrinkles. It fits closely to his body and…though he’s sitting like an old man, his body doesn’t look old. She stares at the outline of his upper arm in his sleeve. It’s really curvy in a way that comes from hard work, like working on a farm back home. She wants to press her hand against it. 

By now she’s openly staring again. But the man doesn’t notice or maybe even doesn’t care. 

Her eyes look down at his legs. His pants really do have a lot of pockets; they have more pockets than she’s ever seen on any pair of pants. Syona can barely imagine all that he must be able to carry in there. Maybe tissues? Lollipops? A cellphone? She wonders if he’s ever thought of using a purse instead. Or a basket, like her. 

They’re baggy enough that she can’t make out the outline of his legs the way she can of his upper arm. The pants are held up with a plain brown belt that has lots and lots of compartments to it (yes, he _has_ to be hiding lollipops in there). His legs are very long-so long that she’s sure one step of his could make two or three of hers. How lucky he is, to have two long legs to carry him anywhere he wants to go really, really fast. 

His boots are as black as his pants. She can see just the barest hint of dust on them, but they’re otherwise as clean as the rest of his clothes. They’re laced up and up and up. She wonders how long it took him to learn how to tie them. 

All throughout her staring, he never so much as squirms and so he really must be asleep. He keeps emitting that calm. 

He must not be an old man. Syona has never seen an old man that dresses like this. 

He is…what is that word? “Handsome”. Yes, that’s it. He’s very, very handsome and Syona hasn’t even seen his face yet. 

She pulls her lips in and slowly looks down at her own two, tiny sandaled feet, who can just barely meet the ground. But Syona can’t help but steal glances at him every few seconds. He really is handsome. She wants to tell him in case he doesn’t know, but she remembers overhearing a group of women here say that men don’t like that. Men don’t like when women- _girls_ -tell them that they like the way they look. They said it makes men uncomfortable and not like you because it’s only men that give compliments to women. You threaten a “man’s place” if you’re a woman-or, worse, a _girl_ -and tell them that you like them. Even if you’re familiar with them, you can’t tell men that you like their look. It’s just not done, they say. 

It’s yet another strange…thing here. Back in her village, the women and older girls always talked about men’s looks and, sometimes, other women and older girls’ looks too. Syona would hear them at the well, around the small ring of vendor stalls, in front of their houses, out on the farms. Sometimes during the afternoons when there was a lull in work, almost always after Fajr prayer, breakfast and the first lessons of school. They would make gestures she didn’t understand and say words she didn’t understand. But she never asked questions, too content and fascinated to accidentally reveal she could hear and see them clearly. She remembers when, she was much, much younger and before she heard all of their talk, she could only ever understand a man’s body from Papa’s body. To Syona, a man’s body was only for three things-making a child; taking care of that child; and working to make money for that child. 

But the women and older girls would take a man’s body apart, piece by piece with words she knew: “His eyes are bright.” “His back is broad.” Then there came the words that she didn’t know: “His ass is taut.” “His cock is large.” These weren’t parts that really went to taking care of a child like Papa took care of her (at least, not that Syona knew of), but they talked about the parts simply because they liked them. And it was almost always when no one else was around except them. Sometimes Syona almost didn’t have to learn how to hide from them the fact that she could always hear them. 

Syona hasn’t seen this man’s…parts…but she likes his clothes. She likes the upper arm that’s only a few inches away from her. She pulls her lips in even more as she starts wondering what his parts look like underneath. Even the parts that she’s never seen on a man before and the parts that have names she doesn’t know about. Would she like him underneath, too? 

But…but that was what you could think about back home. When things made sense. 

Nothing makes sense here. 

This is not home. 

Sadness comes over Syona again. She pulls her lips out and trails her gaze back from the man beside her. Her dark umber eyes drift closed as memories of her village come to the front of her mind once more. She cradles Prithi just a little closer. There’s a part of her that…that wants her sadness to reach the man, just the way his quietness is reaching her. To reach him and for him to understand. For someone-anyone-to understand. But why isn’t she feeling just a little bit happy? Shouldn’t she be just a little happy that she managed to get away from the _Hashshashin_ and a very kind stranger let her sit down? He hasn’t even called her out of her name. 

Tears prick her eyes. She struggles to blink them away and hugs Prithi even closer. So close that the doll’s broken plastic elbow digs into her tummy. No, she can’t be happy. She doesn’t want to be in a place where a _Hashshashin_ could be hiding, ready to steal her away and kill her. She doesn’t want to be in a place where she’s called out of her name and pushed around several times a day just because she’s a child. She doesn’t want to be in a place where her only Papa is in and out of a workplace that’s not good for him and he’s always so tired that he’s barely even Papa anymore. 

Syona doesn’t want this. 

It’s harder and harder to control the tears. Desperately, she seeks out the man’s steady stillness again. But all the sudden it’s not enough. Now his stillness, his calmness presses in all around, on all sides of her body until she can’t breathe. Cloth stuffed into her ears, glass walls over her eyes. 

Until there’s nothing but silence screaming her insignificance. 

She struggles to think of something else, anything else. Anything so she doesn’t make an outburst and frighten this poor, poor sleeping man that’s probably not old-

Oh… 

If he’s sleeping, then he might lose control of his body soon. He might sway. He might fall over. Syona looks down at the ground. It’s nothing but gravel and dirt, with the occasional piece of broken glass or store coupon lying around. It’s hot and it hurts when you fall on it and fall on it hard-she would know. 

But she’s only really hurt her knees, elbows and hands on this Damascus ground. If the man falls over from being asleep, then he could land on and hurt his _head_. Really, really badly. Papa’s always said that hurting your head often means you have to go see someone to help you. And Syona’s always been lucky because whenever she’s been about to fall asleep and she wasn’t around her bed? She usually fell on Papa. Papa’s shoulder. Papa’s back. Papa’s lap. She especially loved it when she just fell asleep with her head in Papa’s lap when they were cuddling on Thready in front of their tiny TV. Papa would lay a blanket over her and Prithi and gently stroke both of their heads. And the next morning, when Syona woke up, she was still lying in his lap, with his soft, rumbling snores making her and Prithi giggle. 

This man has no papa here that she can see to catch him if he falls over. The longer time goes on, the more likely it is for him to hit his head and hurt himself. 

Syona can’t let him get hurt. 

But she doesn’t know what to do. Quietly, she scrambles to figure something out. 

Maybe…she looks around them, wondering if this man has a papa nearby that can catch him. But if he does, she doesn’t know how to look for him or ask for him. Maybe his papa is at one of the vending stalls? Or away at work in the Souk al-Silaah like hers? Or he could be on his way now and Syona just has to be patient and wait? Surely this man has a papa that’s going to carry him home so he can safely sleep in a bed…

But Syona waits and waits and no one comes for the sleeping man. She frowns- _her_ Papa always comes for her no matter what. This man could hit his head soon! What kind of papa does he have?! 

She has to think of something else. Her eyes take in his body all over again. He’s about three times her size and she imagines that all the lollipops and tissues and cellphones and whatever else he’s carrying in all those pockets and that belt only adds to his weight. She can barely carry her basket as it is. So there’s no way she could catch him before he falls or at least, give up her seat and guide him to lie down on the bench. Her eyes dart down to her basket, but there’s nothing soft or big enough in there that she could put on the ground to cushion his fall. 

Her heart pounds quickly as she looks back up again at the people passing them by. She scans them, but no one looks like this man’s papa, come to carry him home. No matter how hard she wracks her brain, the eight-year-old can’t think of anyone else that might be safe to ask for help. She’s running out of good ideas and it’s only a matter of time before he falls and hits his head. 

Syona pulls her lips in again. The only thing she can think of now is to wake him up. She’d hate to do that, as he may really, really need the nap right now, but…but his nap is going to end painfully if she doesn’t at least try. Her heart leaps into her throat again and she glances at him many, many times again. If she touches him to get him to wake up, how long will she have to explain herself before he says something mean to her? Or gets up in anger and leaves? 

But the more she waits, the less that she can do. 

Slowly, so, so, so slowly, Syona lifts one hand from cradling Prithi. She stretches out her pointer finger in the direction of the man’s nice upper arm. Her small, sandy brown finger is poised and ready to make contact with that arm. She stares at her finger, hovering in the air and aimed at this man’s very curvy arm. Nervousness makes the juice in her tummy splish and slosh and her heart is hammering like she’s running from danger all over again. She forces herself to take deep, deep breaths. 

She has to do this. She can’t let the poor man hurt himself. 

One…two…three…

She makes her finger go forward to poke his arm and-

Syona blinks. 

Her finger is hovering in the air behind his back. 

She stares at her finger for a long, long time. She could’ve…she could’ve _sworn_ that she aimed for his arm. His arm was _right_ in front of her and it still is. It hasn’t moved an inch. It’s stayed right where it is. Yet her finger-which _was_ going in the right direction-is only touching air. 

How…? 

Syona pulls her hand back and looks up, wide-eyed at the sleeping man. He’s as still as ever, still emitting that calm as he sleeps. He does not move. He _did not_ move. She knows he didn’t. 

So maybe…maybe it’s just the heat. Maybe she’s just more tired than she thought. 

She doesn’t have time to wonder a whole lot, though. She has to wake him up as soon as she can. So she makes _sure_ that he’s still, then gets ready to try again. 

One…two…three…

And her finger is in front of his chest. 

What the…? 

Is he a ghost? No, he can’t be a ghost-Papa says that ghosts don’t exist; only angels do. And you can always touch angels because that’s how they help comfort you. Angels also probably don’t sleep and this man is sleeping and he’s going to hurt his head if Syona can’t wake him up fast. She’s only tried twice and she can’t give up now. 

By Allah, she’s going to get this man to wake up! 

So Syona tries again. And again. 

Prithi suggests that she try to use her other hand to poke the man awake and she does. But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work at all. No matter what, her finger always ends up either behind the man’s back or in front of the man’s chest. Fear and frustration start to make new tears prick at the corners of Syona’s eyes; clog up her throat with wet cotton. She really, really doesn’t want this man to get hurt, but she’s so powerless to help him. Her mouth releases a huff, then forms into a pout. She wracks her brain again to try to find something else to help. 

Maybe…maybe if she used…two hands? 

Two fingers? 

Surely his arm can’t avoid _two_ of her fingers at the same time. Because, so far, her single finger has either been behind his back or in front of his chest. But with two at the same time? There’s nowhere for his arm to go. She’ll have it pinpointed perfectly and then he’ll have to wake up! 

But to use two fingers at the same time means that Syona can’t hold Prithi anymore. Gently, she lowers her doll into her basket, silently telling her of her new plan all the while. She turns her body just a little more towards the sleeping man and-once again-stares at him a good, long while to make sure he’s _really_ still. As soon as she’s satisfied that he is, she lifts both fingers and double-triple checks that they’re aimed straight for his arm. Not behind his back, not in front of his chest. She is going to poke this man and this man is going to wake up before he hurts himself. 

One…two…three…

“That’s cheating.” 

Syona jumps back with a delighted squeal. Her hands shoot up to cup her cheeks as the widest smile since she’s moved to Damascus lights up her face. “You’re awake!” 

“I’m awake?” 

But Syona’s excitement nearly ends; she almost feels as though she’ll crumple in her skin as the man looks like he’s getting up to leave. The thought turns fleeting as instead, he simply shifts so that he’s angled towards her, not away. He leans forward just a little so that he’s more level with her. 

The prettiest, prettiest eyes she’s ever seen lock contact with hers above a white lower face mask. 

Syona has never _seen_ such a…a golden color before. So gold and framed by thick, dark eyelashes and smooth, unwrinkled skin. They’re the brightest golden brown in all the world. His eyes are shaded by his hood, further making them two mini-suns that mock the big sun that beats down on both of them. They are just a little darker than the sun, closer to amber, even-

No, not amber. 

Honey. 

Butterscotch. 

Syona’s smile widens even more. Yes, this man has eyes even better than a hot sun or amber. He has honey and butterscotch for eyes. 

This man has candy for eyes. Candy is his eyes. 

Just as she had the urge to touch his arm, she now has the urge to reach out and see if she can pluck the sweet, sweet candy in front of her. 

She’s being rude again. She’s staring again. 

But his eyelids shutter just a little and his eyes crinkle at the corners just a little. He must be smiling behind the mask. 

She remembers that this was her original goal-to see him awake. She nods her head slowly; her lips still stretched in that wide, wide smile. “Uh huh! Yeah! You’re awake! You’re okay!” 

“I’m awake _and_ I’m okay? Why wouldn’t I be either?” His otherwise smooth brow crinkles just a little and his head tilts. 

Syona’s ears sing with the sound of his deep, gentle timbre. The depth of his voice soothes her even more than his quietness did. She finds herself breathing slower, deeper at the sound; her shoulders lose the very last of their tension. Her body leans towards his just a tiny bit and her heart leaps joyously when he doesn’t lean away. She soaks up those candy eyes focused on her, that deep voice responding to her. She soaks it up and up and up until she feels like she can fly. 

“I thought you were gonna fall an’ hit your head.” The eight-year-old points to the ground and a brand new thrill goes through her as his eyes follow where her finger points. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, so I was trying to poke you awake.” 

The man’s eyes flare wide and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. That’s why you kept trying to poke me. And here I thought we were just playing a game. I’m sorry, I got confused.” 

Syona…Syona can’t help it. She really, really can’t help it. 

Her hands fly up to cup her cheeks again. 

And she giggles. 

She giggles and giggles in that way that makes her tummy shake and her cheeks flush and her eyes spark. 

“No, silly! I wasn’t trying to play with you! I was trying to keep you from falling over and hitting your head!” 

“ _Oh._ Okay. I understand now.” The man looks down at the ground like he’s never seen it before, then back up at her. That candy dances. “I wasn’t asleep, but thank you for trying to help me. You must be a really, really nice person.” 

Syona’s is sure that her face is going to split at this point. “Aww, well...my papa always said that it’s really, really bad to hurt your head.” 

“Your papa is a very smart person, then.” 

Her chest just about bursts with pride. Papa _is_ a really, really smart person. He’s the smartest person Syona knows. “Yeah, he is.” Sorrow lightly clouds her heart all over again as memories anew come to her mind. Her smile drops. “He’s really smart. He used to homeschool me…back home…” 

The man’s candy eyes are caring above his face mask. “‘Back home’? This is not your home?” 

Syona sadly shakes her head. Her voice becomes quieter, full of…everything that is grief. Papa and me haven’t been back home for four months now. We’ve been stuck here and I…I hate it. I miss my home.” 

“I’m so sorry. What do you miss about your home?”

Her voice is small. “Everything…” 

The man’s voice goes softer. “What is ‘everything’?” 

It is that question that bursts a dam in Syona’s mind. And out comes flooding so, so many other memories. They burst like brilliant comets across her thoughts and her little heart picks up speed again. On the tip of her tongue is years’ worth of memories, of a time when she was happy and when the world spun the right way. They’re on the tip of her tongue and she looks at this man and her heart picks up even more speed. He’s still sitting here on this bench, turned towards her with his eyes still warmly making contact with hers. Syona knew he was different as soon as she spotted him and he proves his difference even more now-he’s not like the other grown-ups here, always in a hurry and never with a smile or even a glance to spare to another person, least of all a child. And the grown-ups here certainly haven’t so much as spared a thought to her. 

But here is this man. This man with a bright white hoodie and boots that lace up and up and up and two long, pretty bracelets with salad tongs and a crescent moon on them and lots and lots and lots of pockets and candy for eyes. This man that surely has somewhere else to be, something else to do just like every other grown-up in the Holy Land. 

He wants to know about her home. He wants to listen to her. 

Syona is still sitting on the bench, yet she swears her soul just shot out of Damascus, through the sky and up among the stars. 

The words come off her tongue almost faster than she can word them. “The well. The meadow. Our houses. Our animals. The farms. And...us. Our families. Our people. We filled our village up an’ we made it pretty.” 

Somehow he kept up. 

“You said ‘the well’ first.” 

The memory blooms to Syona, opening up as a flower of emotions on her lips. “Uh huh! That was one of my first chores in the morning. Me an’ the other kids. I used to walk with Dhiren and we would talk about how we painted our vases. You know, the vases that you put the water in?” 

“Mm-hmm.” 

“We would paint them. So long as we finished up all of our chores and our parents made a good…profeet? From their work?” Syona’s little nose crinkles as she struggles with the word. It’s been a long, long while since she’s struggled with a word in front of a grown-up that’s not Papa. “Is it ‘profeet’…?” 

She worries that the man will become impatient and annoyed, that he may even call her stupid or get up and leave. Her body stiffens, ready for the harsh words and the huff-and-walk-away.

Instead, he gently suggests the word she was looking for. “Profit?” 

Syona lets out a breath of relief. “Yeah! Yeah, that! If they had the money, they’d buy us paint and we could paint the vases. And sometimes we could even dye some of the linens and hang them up for decorations when our village would gather for dinner celebrations.” 

“What would you paint?” 

“Oh, a lot of things! Like, Dhiren always liked to paint flowers. Really, really big purple flowers, too. And other times, he’d paint us dancing around during our celebrations. He made little stick people so good! I liked to paint the sun. But I got bored sometimes ‘cause, see, the sun is always yellow. An’ so I painted a blue sun and then a pink sun! My papa loved it!” 

The man’s eyes widen and surprise enters his voice. “A blue and a pink sun? I’ve never seen one of those before. It must’ve been amazing on your vase. Did you tell the other people at the well all about it?” 

“Uh huh! I even showed them before I filled up the vase with water and they all talked about it!” Tears prick at the corners of Syona’s eyes as the memories take on a new, bittersweet flavor. But she continues because the man is listening to her and she wants to keep talking. 

“They talked about a lot of things in my old village. You went there in the morning and other times and you could hear everything.” She abruptly thinks back to when she was remembering the words like ‘cock’ and ‘ass’ that she didn’t understand…and how she wanted to know what the man looks like under his white hoodie. 

A blush hotter than the Damascus sun creeps up her neck and paints her cheeks a dark color. For a moment she breaks eye contact with the man and looks anywhere other than those pretty, curvy upper arms and candy eyes and thick lashes and smooth skin of his. Oh, she hopes he doesn’t know what she was thinking just minute ago!

But the man surprises yet again-when he next speaks, Syona can hear nothing but concern. “Are you okay?” 

Syona looks back up at him and she can see the space between his candy eyes creasing. Those candy eyes aren’t angry or off-put, but stay friendly and worried for her. His deep voice is still soft, gentle. He’s not going anywhere and it looks like he didn’t guess anything. 

She nods her head just a little too hard and smiles just a little too wide. “U-uh huh! Yeah! It’s just…it wasn’ always true and Papa always warned me about it, but I…I liked hearing their voices. Especially around the other girls and the women-they taught me new things, like how to water a plant so it doesn’t overflow.”

The man nods and she gets the sense that he’s smiling behind his mask again. “Your papa really is a smart man-sometimes what we hear isn’t true and we have to be careful. But it’s also good that you learned many things from those people. It’s always good to learn.” 

Syona beams, the last of her blush leaving her face. In the back of her mind, she waits for the man to ask about her mama (which a lot of people here like to demand when she’s accidentally in their way). When Syona’s mama was having a hard time giving birth to her, the closest hospital wouldn’t let them in despite much Mama and Papa pleaded because the hospital didn’t want to be “gypped”. And so it’s always been Papa and Syona. Though she doesn’t know much about her mama and never met her, the subject still makes her sad. She certainly would’ve liked to know her mama, to know the woman named Kalyani. A woman that makes Papa smile at the same time she makes him cry. Yes, she would like to know the woman…especially since it looks like everyone else has a mama but her. 

She gets so, so sick and tired of her and Papa being looked at like…like half-humans just because she only has Papa and Papa has always taken care of her all by himself. It’s bad enough that they have to lie about being Romani as it is. It got to the point where Syona asked Papa if she could do a very, very bad thing by lying and just saying that her mama was at home. But Papa told her it was alright and that sometimes- _just sometimes_ -lying can be okay, so long as there’s a good reason for doing it and you don’t hurt anybody. 

But the man doesn’t ask about Syona’s mama. She looks up into those eyes again and there’s no mean curiosity. Just that same concern, and a feeling of just…just being _seen_. 

“What about the meadow?” 

“Oh yeah! That! The meadow started just before you go to the forest, at the edge of our village.” Syona uses her hands to draw a map in the air for the man. He nods, watching her hands intensely and the eight-year-old bounces in her seat again. 

“It wasn’ very big, but it was plenty pretty. We weren’ really allowed to pick the flowers from it ‘cause the flowers could wilt an’ die. And then it wouldn’t be a meadow. But we always played in it and, if you were really, really good? You could find honeysuckle in some of the flowers!” 

“Honeysuckle? I hear that that’s very delicious.” 

“It is! When I got back home? I always forgot to wash my mouth, so Papa would call me ‘Honey Mouth’ and I’d have to take a bath while he cooked dinner.”

The man laughs gently. It’s a deep, easy rumble that comforts Syona with its strong sound. It reminds her of thunder rolling in the distance before a storm comes and it’s the perfect cuddle time. “That’s a cute nickname. And your houses and animals?” 

“Our houses weren’t very big. Like the houses up in the middle and the rich districts here? Those are really big ones!” 

He agrees, “Yes, those are certainly big houses over there.” 

“But…but our houses always had some music in them. Papa would turn up the radio when it was a big, big cleaning day. I remember painting the vases with my friends and we would stand in front of the windows, especially when it was a sunset and there was a good breeze. We could see our horses and cattle grazing, too. We would wave at them and make funny faces. And we kept painting even when we had to turn on the lamps.”

Syona can smell the acrylic paint and feel the warm, setting sun and hear the laughs of Sanjita and Dhiren and Ragni. 

“That sounds like a lot of fun. You’ve said a lot about your people. What else did you all enjoy doing?” 

“The grown-ups would do things like…like play cards. Papa would invite people over to play while the TV was on. And my friends and me would paint or play with our dolls and Legos. We had contests to see who could build the biggest Lego castle!"

“Who won?” 

Syona leans forward, wanting to make good on her point. The man obliges her and leans down just a little to hear. 

“I did. ‘Cause mine was mostly pink and pink _always_ wins.” 

“Pink always wins? That is very, very true.” He straightens up again and there’s a smile in his voice. 

“Yeah! And I always carried Prithi with me, too.” 

“Who is Prithi?” 

“She’s my doll. And she’s…she’s broken.” Syona’s smile drops just a little. “Want to see her?” 

This time, she’s not surprised at the answer. 

“Certainly.” 

With a barely-contained squeal and another bounce, she bends over to get her doll out of the basket. She’s careful to show the man just how to cradle Prithi, how to take care not to hurt her broken arm any worse. The man nods his understanding and holds his arms out in a perfect cradle. Slowly, the little girl lays her doll in the man’s pretty arms. She watches him quietly snuggle Prithi close to his stomach. 

She watches him take in Prithi’s features. The doll’s skin is a sandy brown like Syona’s, with long straight mahogany hair that Syona used to spend hours combing and washing. Her eyes are huge and black, with long lashes and blue eye shadow painted around them. Dark red lipstick is stains her lips. She wears a traditional Moroccan _Gandora_ that’s a bright, sparkly blue with intricate white embroidery along the hem, neck and sleeve openings. Its single pocket holds Prithi’s little brush and compact mirror. The slit in the dress goes all the way up to just below her knee. 

Her Prithi is a perfect doll, even with her broken arm. 

Syona wonders how the man knows how to cradle dolls so well. Maybe he has dolls that he practices with in one of his many, many pockets? 

Her voice is quiet as she watches one of his fingers delicately touch the edge of Prithi’s _Gandora_. “Papa used to be able to fix her if she got broken. But now he doesn’ have time anymore. He’s always working and leaving me…” 

“I’m so sorry about that. He’s at work now? How long does he work?” 

“He…he’s already up when I get up. And he doesn’ come back home until it’s almost my bedtime. He’s always so tired and he used to…not be so tired. He works in the Souk al-Silaah and his new bosses aren’ very nice, either…”

He nods and Syona can hear a frown in his voice. His finger now moves to gently inspect Prithi’s broken arm, the digit carefully moving over where one part of the plastic doesn’t join with the upper part. “I imagine that they must not be nice if they don’t let your papa get much sleep and free time. Where did he work before you came here?” 

Syona scrunches up her nose as she tries to think of the right phrase. “He…he was me-employed. Is that it? Me-employed?” 

“Self-employed?” 

“Yeah that! He was a farmer, just like a lot of our village. He would trade with our neighbors, too. Like…like he’d bring them a few melons and lemons for some new cloths. Then he’d show me how to knit the cloths so we can make a lot of stuff. Like a shirt or a hijab or a shoe covering. They used to be really colorful…” 

He cocks his head to the side. “Why aren’t they colorful now?” 

“‘Cause Papa had to sell a lot of our stuff so we could eat. I felt…I felt bad that I yelled at him when he had to sell our vases, too.” Shame spills icy and uncomfortable into Syona’s belly. “I feel bad right now ‘cause I get…I still get so mad at him. ‘Cause he’s not there anymore. I do almost everything by myself now and I just want Papa back. I feel like he’s not home anymore.”

“You don’t have to feel bad about your feelings. Everyone feels bad things from time to time and you have your right to have your time.” 

“But I was mean to Papa. I hurt _his_ feelings.” 

“Did you say you were sorry?” 

“Yeah…” 

“And did he accept?” 

“Uh huh. He gave me a hug, too…” 

She can feel his smile this time. “Then that’s all that matters. You may feel what you feel so long as you understand that it’s not nice to hurt other people. Especially the ones closest to you.” 

Syona nods eagerly. How long it’s been since she’s had a nice, patient grown up to help her, to guide her. To give her advice when she’s worried. This man doesn’t seem to be a very old grown-up (in fact, he could probably even be much, much younger than Papa), but those candy eyes are very, very smart. 

They’re interrupted by several black, very important-looking cars roaring past them. They kick up so much dust that Syona covers her eyes and mouth with her hands. Their drivers honk so, so loudly and rudely that Syona wants to cover her ears too. Passerby jump out of the way just in time and a lot of them don’t dare say anything about nearly being mowed over. Behind them come those military jeeps with all of those soldiers and their guns in it. Syona just knows those jeeps were in her village, too and fear makes bile rise in her throat again. 

Syona’s little heart pounds in her chest at the sight of those men. Thoughts of the chaos that happened not even an hour ago swirl as spilled whiteout over her memories of her home.

Where are all those cars going? To more places, where they’ll speak badly about her and her people? Running away from the _Hashshashin_ , or even towards it to deal with it? But why would they be going to deal with the _Hashshashin_? Everyone knows that you should never, ever, ever try to fight one of those-you either lose and die or you run away. 

As more of those vehicles zoom pass them and picking up dust on their way, Syona scoots closer to the man. He’s still emitting that calm like a sun’s rays and she soaks every last bit of those rays up. 

His hand comes up and lightly squeezes her shoulder, then stays there. 

It’s the warmest touch Syona’s ever had here in this foreign Damascus outside of Papa’s touches. She _melts_ into the comforting, friendly touch. Her bones go to butter, her mind turns to mush and she leans in even more towards the man. She’s so close that their legs nearly touch. She could wiggle her way under his pretty arm and press herself against his side if she were braver. His grip on Syona’s shoulder is one she can easily break and move away from. The quiet warmth of the gesture reaches the eight-year-old all the way down to her little toes. 

And she feels almost as safe and wanted as she did with Papa, back home in their village. She looks at the man and sees that he’s even cradling Prithi closer to his tummy. 

He adds another gentle squeeze to her shoulder. There are still more of those black cars roaring by and the man’s voice is soft, gentle and right beside her. “It’s alright.”

_It’s alright…_

The last one leaves a final heavy plume of dust in its wake. People come back to the streets and finish doing what they were going to do. Quite a few cough, wipe at their eyes and brush at their clothes. Some mutter while shaking their heads. And soon enough it’s like nothing new even happened. Syona can’t even catch any more words about the _Hashshashin_. 

The man’s hand gently leaves her shoulder, but he doesn’t scoot away from her. Syona still feels that warmth, that calm. She almost feels sleepy again. 

She wants to keep talking, to keep the man’s attention and maybe get him to squeeze her shoulder again. Her voice is quieter now. “But I used to…feel what I…felt when I painted, you know?” 

He indulges her. “You best expressed yourself when you painted. And you were with your village.” 

“Uh huh. I just…I just miss everything. A lot. But Papa says we might not be able to ever go back.” 

“Maybe, maybe not. But you go back in your mind and in your heart. I can tell that everything about your home and its people are still vivid there. They can’t take away your home so long as you hold it in those two places.” 

The man places his hand on Syona’s head and gently rubs, as though he were ruffling her hair underneath her hijab. It’s an even warmer, better touch than the squeezing of her shoulder. And she’s melting again, melting all the way down to the very tips of her toes. Every last bit of tension in her little body just lifts away and tears of relief come to her eyes. 

How long has it been? How long has it been since a stranger’s been so kind just to be kind? 

It’s the effortless kindness, the easy generosity that further melts the eight-year-old. It stays with her even when the man takes his hand back. And she imagines that it’ll stay with her for the rest of the day, probably even the rest of the week. 

Probably even the rest of her life. 

She gives him a watery smile. “Thanks. I just wish…I still had paint and my friends and my Papa and everyone else again. I want to paint everything ‘cause I don’t want to forget.” 

“You won’t forget and you’ll paint again.” Those candy eyes are still so, so kind…

Before she makes a mess of herself, Syona looks back at the slowly bustling street. It’s almost…almost like the man has made her able to see her home from here. Like it’s…just on the other side of this dusty, miserable Damascus so long as it’s in her heart. No…no, she’s sure she won’t forget now. She’s sure, but how…? 

Syona’s brow crinkles at the small buildings and vendor stalls across from them. “How do you know?” 

“I know.”

She turns to look at the man. “But how-”

The man is gone. 

Syona blinks once…twice…several times. 

But the man does not appear again. 

She feels out of breath, like she just ran through the meadow back home. She reaches into the space that the man inhabited. Did he become invisible all the sudden? Her hand doesn’t touch on an invisible pretty upper arm; there’s nothing but the hot air of the city. She lets her hand fall onto his vacant seat. Still warm, but…it would’ve been that warm anyway with the sun still beating on it…

An intense pout forming on her face, Syona desperately searches the throng of people for that white hoodie. Just a big flash of white anywhere…

But there is nothing. 

The man is gone. 

Or was he even here to begin with? What was he, with those candy eyes and those warm, almost-magic hands? A fairy godparent? An imaginary friend? An angel? 

The little girl blinks back distressed tears and clenches her hands in her lap. She clenches them so tight that her little nails dig little crescent moons into her little palms. 

“Come back”, Syona whispers to the air, “Come back...please come back…” 

Come back…

She waits and waits. 

But no one answers. No one comes. 

Ah, here she is crying over a kind stranger. A part of her wants to grab onto any random person passing her and beg them to help her find the man in the white hoodie. But besides the obvious danger of that, something tells her that the man in the white hoodie is her own little secret. 

It’s surely past time to get back to the house. She has chores to do and it’s so, so hot out here. Syona wipes at her eyes with her sleeve, gives a little sniffle and leans over to pick up her basket. She blinks upon seeing Prithi tucked neatly in among the groceries…like Syona never took her out at all. 

Was he even real…? 

She picks up the heavy basket with a grunt and finally starts on her way home. In a daze, she half-walks, half-stumbles. Syona can’t tell what makes her not really notice the grown-ups that push and shove past her, some even mumbling those mean things about her. Maybe it’s her sadness. Maybe it’s that man’s calmness that’s seeped right into her and taken a gentle hold that won’t let go for a long time. She can’t help but look all around for just a flash of blinding white, though. To the left of her, to the right. In front and even glancing over her shoulder several times. But she sees nothing. 

Syona makes it back and, still in her daze, almost expects to see Papa at the stove, cooking her a delicious lunch. 

Oh…of course not. 

With a heavy sigh, she heaves the basket on the low splintery, rickety wooden table and starts to unpack and put up the groceries. She carefully picks Prithi up and-

Prithi. 

Syona’s eyes widen in disbelief as she takes a closer look at her only doll. 

Prithi’s arm is fixed. 

Her small thumb rubs over the fragile plastic. Prithi’s elbow joint is perfectly locked in place, as though it was never broken. She even tries gently moving the arm back and forth, side to side and hushes Prithi in case it hurts. But it doesn’t hurt Prithi at all-Syona finds no resistance, no creakiness and the arm stays perfectly attached no matter how she moves it. 

With a gasp and then a yelp, Syona hugs her doll tightly to her chest and twirls ‘round and ‘round in the dirt floor. Her Prithi is fixed! 

A new spring in her step, she cradles her doll close to her chest and goes back to unpacking the groceries. 

A plain black wallet falls out. 

Syona’s heart jumps to her throat and her tummy drops to her feet. She glances warily at Prithi before picking the wallet up off the floor. 

It is heavy. 

Hands trembling all over again, Syona puts Prithi on the table and starts searching for an ID. A credit card. A driver’s license. Something. Anything because there cannot be a stolen wallet in this house, in this Damascus where Syona and her people are said to ‘gyp’. 

But there is nothing. 

Her lips twisting in both curiosity and worry, she opens the zipped compartment and her dark brown eyes cannot believe what they are seeing. 

Pounds. 

There are so, so, so many pounds. The wallet bulges with them. 

Syona rifles through the many pounds in the wallet. She feels their starch crispiness, like they were just freshly made and never exchanged. She can only see 500 and 1000 pound notes. For all her love of math, there are simply so many pounds in this one simple black wallet that she can’t possibly count them all without Papa’s help. Surely this is more than enough money to feed them for months to come, or even enough for Papa to start putting a payment towards some farming land of his own out of here, out of this Damascus…

How…? 

Slowly, she turned to look at Prithi’s fixed arm…then back at the loaded wallet in her hand…and back again to Prithi’s repaired arm. 

The man in the white hoodie. 

Syona tucks the wallet back into her basket and races to the fling the front door open. She looks all around and, once again, finds no flash of white among the throng of people. But she smiles nonetheless and tucks both Prithi and the wallet close to her heart. 

He was real. 

So very, very real. 

And he was even kinder and more generous than Syona thought. 

It is on this day that Syona learns angels really do exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, pretty please let me know what you think! Pretty please shout out! :D


	2. Caldarium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I have no excuse for how long this took save for general life troubles, severe writer's block and generally sucking at writing action scenes/violence. Gracious. Ya'll forgive me? 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings for this chapter:** Anti-Roma/Romani racism  & violence, use of g***y slur, much more violence in this chapter, though

Altaïr seethes. 

That little girl had to be part of yet another group of Romani peoples that have been wrenched from their homes. She, her father, and their entire village are of the latest in a long, long line of terror that stretches over a year and a half. 

Altaïr got his briefing and mission three days ago back home before he headed out to Damascus. 

Councilman Alaat needed a brand new edge for his re-election for his seat on the People’s Council. He since had an under-the-table partnership with Tamir, the weapons manufacturer and tyrannical controller of the Souk al-Silaah, and most certainly a long-standing target on the Assassins’ list. Alaat felt like being creative and had a taste for bloody scapegoats this election season and Tamir needed fresh, cheap labor for his factories. 

Alaat’s guards had been eyeing several Romani villages not far from the city and so an agreement was made: Alaat’s guards would double as a militia, kidnap the people and bring them here to work as slave laborers in Tamir’s Souk al-Silaah. It would be more than simple to keep the violence against the Romani peoples and their homes quiet, as very few people cared, much less had any power to stop it. 

While they were worked literally to death in Tamir’s factories, Alaat would control the public narrative in pretending that they were immigrating en masse to the poor district of Damascus. In doing so, the Romani peoples were supposedly stealing every single available job in the poor district from “hardworking, legal citizens”, rather than actually having been trafficked and holding little to nothing salvaged from their homes and, thus, simply applying for any scarce jobs outside the dangerous Souk al-Silaah (and less than a handful were lucky) and any aid they can get simply to survive. The Romani peoples often tried to obscure their true race and ethnicity in both written and spoken words (a great many pretended to be Desi), but both Tamir and Alaat more than kept track of their beloved cheap labor/bloody scapegoats and so they personally were never fooled. Many couldn’t readily hide from the non-Romani citizens either-they were still targets for rank, unchecked violence and discrimination and to even think of pleading for help and protection from the city guards (more than half of which were in Alaat’s pocket anyway) was merely to ask for more of the same. 

Alaat regularly advertised himself in his campaign as the answer to the “gypsy problem” while Tamir quietly “only hired” the Romani peoples. And Alaat would, in fact, make good on this campaign promise: were he to win his seat again, by the time he would be halfway through his first term, more than half of the thousands of those trafficked would be dead from overwork, malnutrition, dehydration and/or murder. 

Alaat is surely poised to strike again and even sooner this time. The Romani peoples can only move so fast and they don’t even possess half the resources that Alaat does. No matter how fast they try to move to a safer place, in the end the Councilman’s and weapons’ dealer’s covert teams always caught them with barely any problems. 

That child told Altaïr that she and her father have been in Damascus for four months now; they were fresh labor/scapegoats. This meant that Alaat and Tamir were going even faster than even the Assassins thought and Altaïr felt his haste increase.

He’d really rather take out both Tamir and Alaat today, but Al Mualim decreed that only Alaat needed to be killed for the entire operation to fall; Tamir wasn’t the one that had the resources to expend guards going out to different villages at all hours of the day and night. That was why Tamir partnered with the Councilman in the first place. 

It still makes Altaïr grind his teeth together and increases his seething, but he will not disobey his Mentor on this. He’ll drop a hint that, as a present for restraining this time, Al Mualim should leave Tamir’s death to him in the future. 

But that little girl…

Altaïr winces behind his lower face mask as he slips smoothly into Damascus’ middle district. He must have scared her terribly when he did the first part of his job by taking out Alaat’s team of propagandizing guards in the middle of the Souk al-Silaah and so she ran all the way to the bench where he was waiting the city alarm out on. The entire time she sat next to him, he checked over her for any signs of immediate trauma. He concluded that she hadn’t actually _seen_ him kill those men and, had she been in range to see it and had Altaïr known, he would’ve stayed his hand and waited until she was out of range. As far as he could tell, she was perfectly alright, especially if she felt like trying to poke him awake and play with him. The memory makes a warm, endeared smile slowly dissolves his some of his seething. 

Guilt at having scared her at all and at having to leave her to finish what he came to do still twists in Altaïr’s stomach and he hopes that, in the meantime, fixing her doll’s arm and giving her what he money he had on him would suffice as an apology. He makes a mental note to find and check on her and her father after he’s finished with the last part of his job in the rich district. 

He slows down just a modicum as he catches the whispers weaving in through the plain talk. Here in the middle district of Damascus, people enjoy slightly more freedom to speak than those in the poor district, but still significantly less than those in the rich district. 

And so Altaïr listens. 

He expects the same exact pattern he deduced when he began his investigation of Alaat two days ago. 

“Alaat speaks of standing tall and strong, but you saw all those cars with his guard in them barreling through here as soon as that _Hashshashin_ …” 

“…Campaigning on budgets and gypsies, but look at…” 

“He’s going to his damn _hammam_ again. If I could scrunch up my nose any further…” 

“…Pulled all his guards-every single one-into some emergency-mode to keep them close to him…” 

“…Has my vote, but what man spends an entire afternoon and evening in a bath?”

“A _Hashshashin_ let loose on those poor men of Alaat’s…” 

Altaïr keeps moving even as his eyes slowly roll skyward. So the pattern stays the same: Alaat is still a man that thinks he doesn’t know fear to the point where he’s not going to let something as supposedly-trivial as Altaïr eliminating his part of his guard in the poor district to keep him from his daily bath in the rich district’s exclusive _hammam_. 

It is exactly that predictable, arrogant pattern that ensured he could go ahead with killing those propagandizing guards without worry in the first place. 

The late morning is quickly turning into the early afternoon. Alaat will be taking his scheduled bath soon enough. Though Altaïr doesn’t expect difficulty at the entrance, he’ll still need to stay quiet and unassuming to infiltrate the rich district to even get to the _hammam_. And while in there, it will be prudent to still listen to weaving whispers and watch out for guards in case his target’s positions have changed. 

A few minutes later, getting into the rich district is just as easy as Altaïr thought and, as he moves towards the hammam, he hears confirmation that Alaat is not canceling his bath. 

Of course Alaat is not going to let a little thing like an Assassin coming after him and disrupt his indulgent routine. No, he’ll just gather all the rest of his guards closely around him, rather than spreading at least a handful of them throughout the city to stay on lookout. What is fear for a powerful councilman that feels assured to have another term? 

Well, Altaïr feels the small camera in his pocket and he knows he has a lesson to teach tonight. 

-

“You know where to go, do you not?!” Alaat yells, his voice echoing through the caldarium. “Don’t I pay you to know where to go? Isn’t that part of your job?” 

The guard who spoke up, one of four, clears his throat nervously. The heavy sweat that rolls down his face in rivulets has little to do with the cavernous room’s stifling, humid heat. “Yes, sir. We do understand. We were merely thinking that, since the _Hashshashin_ is-”

Alaat sneers and fingers his robe’s silk tie. “Do I pay you to think? No! What, are you asking for a promotion?!” 

“N-no, sir.” 

“Then get out of my sight and stand guard at the entrance! And one of you double check that the other squads stand at the entrances to the tepidarium and frigidarium even while I relax here. This busy politician won’t have you swine around him while he enjoys a nice, long, well-deserved bath.” He points to the door. “Now _out!_ ” 

Without a word, Alaat’s guards bow their heads and do as they’re told. 

As soon as the door closes with a resounding echo, Alaat disrobes. With a groan, he steps into the near-scalding hot pool and settles down with his back against the cushioned rim. The combination of his guards gone and the heavy, humid heat of the caldarium make all his worries melt away so he can focus on the recent successes. The steady flow of gypsy trash to help fuel his campaign’s base and Tamir’s factory is steady. Alaat chuckles at the fact that, if Tamir continues imposing his _excellent_ work ethic on said trash, the space they were taking up in the poor district would be no problem. Alaat would be able to keep his seat and Tamir would have the work for his next major weapon projects complete. 

Good, productive business deals if Alaat ever saw them.

And as for that _Hashshashin_? It was the biggest fool in all the world if it thought that little stunt in the poor district was going to scare him. From the report, it was barely even a handful of his guards that were killed and, even then, their message still continued to get out perfectly loud and clear. 

All three entrances to all three of the washrooms Alaat rented out for the whole day are being guarded. The roof of the hammam is burglar proof, regardless of how much those crazy _Hashshashins_ love to climb everything and anything in sight and then fall like idiots to their deaths after they finish a murder. 

With a wide smile, Alaat sinks deeper into the hot water. He closes his eyes and drifts in complete contentment. 

There is no way for the _Hashshashin_ to get to him. 

-

Altaïr sighs as he drops into the _hammam’s_ dimly-lit sewers. He lands quietly on the balls of his feet and immediately wrinkles his nose. His mask does a sufficient job in keeping the stench away from his mouth and nose and there’s only a mild sting to his eyes. That part, at least, is taken care of. 

He slowly closes his eyes as he takes deep, shuddering breaths that wrack his back and shoulders. With a shaking arm, he reaches out to lean heavily against the wall. His other arm comes around to cradle his roiling stomach. With his weight pressing against the slick stone, he imagines that he can just force the walls and ceilings to expand. This way, the walls won’t close in and the ceiling won’t collapse in on him and the sewage water won’t come up to engulf him. He won’t get hurt down here. Though Altaïr keeps his eyes closed, he still has the sense that the entirety of the sewers are spinning and rolling. They spin and roll out of all sense and time and his stomach just roils even more. Altaïr wastes a full four minutes just breathing slowly in his nose and out his mouth with his eyes closed. 

_In…hold…four seconds…hold…out…in…hold…_

Assassins are not meant to be this far below ground.

_One rep…two reps…three reps…four…_

At all. 

But it’s only for a while and the sooner he gets moving to get to his target, the sooner he’ll find himself comfortably above ground again. 

He sure as hell is taking a nice, long shower after this, too. 

With another sigh, he finally opens his eyes and pulls his phone out. It’s just after twelve o’clock and this means that Alaat is surely still in his first stage of bathing-he is in the caldarium and, if he stays predictable, won’t move on to the tepidarium for another two to three hours. In addition to that, his guards are not monitoring from inside with their employer; they’re just at the entrances, surely pure Alaat’s strict instruction. 

He scrolls through his phone’s specialized apps, selects the one he needs, and presses its “select” option. 

Five seconds later, the result is an interactive map detailing the quickest climbing routes of the sewers and where they lead to in the palm of Altaïr’s hand. Altaïr then quickly fiddles with the options for a few more seconds. The result of this is a specialized route detailed from his location to the caldarium’s interior. He memorizes it quickly. 

Careful not to hit the greenish-brown, putrid water and sludge, he takes off at a run. 

Straight ahead…now left…up this ladder…left again…

He is well-equipped for safety and efficiency down here in the sewers. As he tears through tunnel after tunnel, his mask stays in place just as much as his hood does, protecting his nose and mouth. When he climbs each ladder, the rough material of his gloves keeps his grip strong and the clear plastic over his fingers hides his fingerprints. And even when he has to _slish and slosh_ through sewage sludge, his boots and pants stay waterproof. 

A small grin comes to his face. He picks up speed. 

Faster and faster Altaïr works his legs until he’s moving in a series of sprints in-between his climbing and jumping. To be able to move as he’s supposed to-swift and sure-helps to push the walls back. Lifts the ceiling. Drains the sewage water. Breath goes in and out of his lungs, faster and harder the swifter he sprints and climbs and jumps. He can almost imagine that he’s doing this atop buildings, soaring fast and high as he’s meant to…

Altaïr finally slides to a stop in front of one last ladder. Panting, he pulls his phone out again. He sees that it took him less than ten minutes to get to this point. This final ladder leads to a vertical gated drain right above Altaïr’s head. And that gate leads straight into the caldarium. 

So he climbs. 

He has no ide ofa Alaat’s actual proximity to that gate as of right now, so this time he moves extra careful. Extra quiet. But still just as fast. 

Careful. Quiet. Fast. 

_Move, move, move…_

_Shh, shh, shh…_

As Altaïr ascends, he feels somewhat grateful that the water here is just a little clearer, just a little less odorous. He finally gets high enough that he can see the short tunnel that leads to the vertical gated drain.

And far, far beyond that drain, Alaat soaks obliviously and blissfully in the bath. 

Perfect. 

Altaïr’s heart beats hard and heavy against his ribs. He quells the temptation to leap clear of the rest of the ladder and, instead, silently ascends the rest of the rungs and lands barely with a _slish_ in the draining water. For several seconds, he stays in the shadows of the tunnel, double checking that his breathing is steady and slow. He moves just a tad closer to inspect the grate’s lock and sees that it’ll be easy to pick; his phone doesn’t even pick up an alarm from it. 

Then, slowly and quietly, Altaïr moves closer to the grate and out of the shadows. His heart beats harder and heavier. He pays extra attention to his feet in the water; he lets them glide, then land over and over instead of outright walking to minimize his sound as much as possible. Once he reaches the grate, he takes out his lock pick set from one of his pockets and quietly disables the lock in three seconds. 

He winces as he gives the grate just the tiniest push. But no creaking meets his ears and Alaat doesn’t move from his spot. Altaïr pushes just a little farther…again…and again…he pushes until it’s open just enough that his body can smoothly slip out from behind it. 

And, silent as a ghost’s whisper, Altaïr is inside the caldarium with the councilman. 

Altaïr stands completely still for just a few moments, eyes honing in on his target. Every single one of his muscles are tightly coiled, poised for the man a little more than four meters in front of him. He listens closely to the general pattern of the water as Alaat languidly runs it over his chest, shoulders and arms. 

_Drip…dribble, drib, dribble, drip…drip, drip…dribble…_

_Dribble, dribble…drip…drib…dribble-_

_Snick._

_-Drip, drip…dribble…_

Altaïr releases his hidden blade from his left arm bracer. The blade is dirty-caked and dried blood from Alaat’s men earlier this morning mars the dulled, sharp metal. 

It will be bloodied all over again in less than a minute. 

He creeps forward. His boots make not a sound on the caldarium’s wet stone floor. Adrenaline rushes anew through his blood. His heart flutters in his throat, his stomach dances and then drops past his feet, and his ears take in every single movement of water, and his eyes take in the entirety of the cavernous room even as they stay zeroed in on the target. 

Alaat still isn’t aware of his presence and doesn’t turn around from his bath. 

Giddy, Altaïr decides he can afford to play. 

Just a little play. 

When he finally comes right up behind the unsuspecting Alaat, he looms over him. Altaïr leans over…over…

…Until his shadowed masked and hooded reflection in the water cannot be mistaken by Alaat. 

Alaat startles, violently displacing water and opens his mouth to scream. But Altaïr is quicker; he swoops down to yank his target out of the bath by the throat, mostly strangling the scream into silence. In the next instance, Altaïr places his blade in his open mouth. At the touch of the bloodied, sharp metal nearly piercing the inside of his cheek, Alaat abruptly falls still and silent. 

Altaïr kneels behind Alaat and leans closer until his masked mouth is right beside Alaat’s ear. He whispers, “Shhhh…” 

His target keeps his mouth as wide open as possible, as though doing so will dislodge the blade pressed into the inside of his cheek. Only Alaat’s calves are still submerged in the bath and he kicks not once; he keeps his arms as still as possible, hands splayed wide and trembling on the wet stone floor. Pathetic whimpers come out of that mouth and Altaïr feels the beginnings of a flood of tears fall on his otherwise-clean sleeve. Alaat’s hot breath puffs in ragged, uneven intervals against his hand and forearm. 

At least the yellowish stream that’s pouring onto the floor and the subsequent yellowish cloud that’s forming in the water around Alaat’s legs isn’t going to get anywhere near his sleeve. 

And at least that was a fun, brief play. 

“While your men were rushing to get to you this morning from the poor district, do you know what happened? A little girl sat beside me”, Altaïr whispers. He pushes the sharp point harder against Alaat’s cheek. Alaat’s whimpers and tears increase. That yellow stream keeps flowing and that yellow cloud dissipates in the bathwater. 

Altaïr continues, “Do you know her name? You might, if you looked at your and Tamir’s shared records. But I don’t know her name either. I couldn’t stay long enough to find out; I had to come here and get you. I _do_ know that she’s Romani, however.” He pauses and pushes the blade again. “Does that sound familiar? ‘Romani’?” 

There’s a tiny trickle of blood oozing out of the councilman’s mouth to slide down his chin. He shakes his head as much as he can without causing any more damage to his face.

“‘No’?” Altaïr confirms. “I was hoping you’d remember. But either way, I have something to help your memory.” 

With his free hand, he pulls out the camera out and flips to the correct set of pictures. When he holds the camera out in front of Alaat, the councilman gives a small squeal and futilely tries to wriggle away. In response, Altaïr pushes his blade even deeper into Alaat’s cheek, nearly penetrating straight through to the outside. Even more blood trickles down his mouth and chin and he gives a low, pain-filled wail. More tears slide down his face and onto Altaïr’s sleeve. 

It is a picture of one of dozens of whole Romani family corpses. Their corpses are burned to black crisps and lay in a dismembered pile in front of a demolished building that was once their house. 

The camera holds dozens and dozens more pictures like and unlike it. 

“ _Look._ Look at what you did or the next place my blade goes is straight into your eyes”, Altaïr promises impassively. 

Alaat gives another whimper as he obeys. 

Altaïr continues to flip through the grotesque pictures for his audience, his blade hand staying steady at Alaat’s mouth. 

“We stole copies of these from the local guardsmen of the areas”, Altaïr explains. “You can probably tell that nothing was actually done to stop this. And so here we are.” 

By the fifty-seventh picture, Alaat is sobbing silently. His body trembles and wracks with the force of his cries. His shuddering reaches the point where he digs the point even deeper, lodging it more firmly into his flesh. More and more of his tears fall on Altaïr’s sleeve and his blood stains nearly the entirety of his lips and chin. Some of the blood drips to land on his chest, on his stomach, and onto the floor where it mingles with the stream of urine. 

“Why are you crying?” Altaïr asks. “Is it because of all the innocent people you’ve destroyed and/or killed? You know you destroyed that child’s life, too. She wouldn’t even be in this city if it wasn’t for you and your partners. Are you crying about her, too?” 

Alaat just keeps sobbing, past all comprehension at this point. The blade in his mouth is close to puncturing to the outside of his face. 

“Ah”, Altaïr replies. He turns off and re-pockets the camera. “Well, you don’t have to cry about it anymore. Let me show you why.” 

With that, Altaïr’s blade rips through the rest of Alaat’s cheek and splits the entirety of that side of his face in half. Alaat’s eyes bulge as he lets out a wail that’s slowly climbing into a scream. The split cheek hangs at an uneven jagged angle, turning Alaat’s mouth into little more than a macabre maw. Blood pours in a crimson waterfall down his jaw, down his neck, down his chest and legs and onto the floor. It falls and swirls into the urine stream. 

Right before Alaat’s wail actually does turn into a scream, Altaïr slashes his throat open. What would’ve been a shrill keening is reduced to a last gurgle Air briefly _wooshes_ out from his cut trachea and a renewed stream of crimson begins to coat much of Alaat’s upper body. As blood pours from his mouth and neck, Alaat’s body gives one last jerk before falling limp against Altaïr. 

Before retracting his blade, Altaïr stretches over to clean it on one of the councilman’s fluffy, monogramed towels. Next is gently closing the councilman’s dead eyes. He lets his body slip with barely a splash into the now-crimson-blooming water. 

And within the next few seconds, all that there is to see of the caldarium is a closed vertical grate, stone floor, towels and bathwater bloodied and soiled, and a councilman’s mutilated corpse settling at the bottom of the bath.

-

Damascus’ city-wide alarm still hasn’t sounded by the time Altaïr makes his way back to its poor district. The sun, in its late-afternoon stage, beats down harshly upon the city’s unknowing occupants. 

But, for now, Altaïr pushes all thoughts of his kill raising the alarm and of the heat. 

He’s since easily blended back into the poor district’s compressed hustle and bustle. As subtly as he can, he looks and listens with sharp awareness. 

Where is that little girl? Is she alright? 

He wishes he had the time to actually watch her go home or better yet, walk her home if she let him. Even though he didn’t have the time, guilt and worry creep farther and farther into his mind.

That child had a basket full of groceries and that basket was heavy for such a small little one to carry, so she had to have taken a route to the vendor that wasn’t too far from her home. Altaïr turns into the sections of the Souk al-Silaah that are made up of food vendors. From there, he heads to the closest parts of the district that hold the highest concentration of trafficked Romani residencies. Still, he listens and still he watches…

If he doesn’t find anything within an hour, his blade just might be dirtied for the third time in a day until he does. 

When Altaïr passes by the third house and still neither hears nor sees anything, he pulls out his phone to check the time. He has fifty-two minutes before someone is paying in blood again. 

He passes by the fifth house-

“-but Papa, he was real! He was really, really real!” 

“Yes, Syona. But please stay still. I’m quite sure he was real, but let me finish checking over you. I only have so much time before I have go back to work.” There is a harsh sigh. “Allah, there was a _Hashshashin_ around and I was stuck at that godforsaken death mill…” A rattling cough. 

Altaïr’s face brightens. “Syona”. Such a pretty name for such a pretty child. He ducks into the shadows near one of the cut out windows. He leans slightly out of the shadows so he can just see above the bare window sill without being seen. The white of his hoodie blends in perfectly with the white stonewash walls. But what he sees warms his heart just as much as it breaks it. 

Syona’s father is, indeed, checking her over. The man looks at his daughter’s limbs, her face, under her chin, her eyes. His is a visage that has aged long, long before its time. The deep lines of his face are premature. Random and wayward, the grey streaks in his otherwise black hair tell of stories best left untold. Though it is only the middle of the day, his eyes are shuttered with exhaustion. The veins of his hands and forearms stand out in the thin skin. 

Altaïr has seen people prematurely aged like that. Far, far too many people. 

Like his own father. 

But even through his trauma-induced aging, he looks so, so much like this daughter. Their soft brown eyes are the same. Their sandy-brown skin is the same. Their noses are the same. And Altaïr can tell that were the man to smile, that too would be the same as Syona’s. 

Syona obliges her father by staying still, but she continues, “No, Papa! You don’t get it! He was really, really an angel! And he was real!” 

Altaïr ducks his head down as a flush of sheepishness comes to his face. Truly, what a sweet, imaginative child. 

“Yes, little one. Angels are real”, he responds absent-mindedly as he double checks the palms of her hands for scrapes. 

“But this one was really, really, _really_ real!” She exclaims. “He even had candy eyes! They were like…like butterscotch! You know, the kind you eat!” 

At that, the man stops and just stares at his child uncomprehendingly. Altaïr has to quickly cover his mouth to stifle his laughter. 

“Candy eyes”. His eyes are candy, are butterscotch. 

That is something new to tell everyone back home. 

Adha will especially bust and break something wide open just by laughing at it. She won’t let him live it down for the next several weeks, if not months. 

“Uhhh… _habiba_ , do you mean…a very light-brown color?” Her father asks hesitantly. The man is obviously shaken by his child’s description and is possibly wondering if Altaïr is even human.

He wouldn’t be the first to wonder such a thing. 

Altaïr has had a long, long time to accept that this is simply part of his job. 

“ _No_ , Papa!” Syona insists. “I mean candy eyes! He was an angel! He even left us…presents!” 

“Now, Syona, I don’t think-”

“Seriously! Look…” Syona lowers her voice, glances around them. When she’s certain that no one is watching she pulls away from her father to rummage in her basket. 

She pulls out Prithi with her repaired arm and the wallet. Altaïr made sure to fix the doll’s arm and drop his spare wallet in there while Alaat’s men’s cars were roaring past so it’d be just as nice a surprise as it is an apology for leaving her on her own. His smile stretches wider as he realizes he succeeded. 

Her father delicately takes the repaired Prithi in his hands. He blinks upon seeing that, indeed, his daughter’s doll’s arm is fixed and surely not by her own doing. 

Syona then slips the stuffed and unidentified wallet into his hands. Altaïr watches as the man’s face goes from shocked to agitated to disbelieving, back to shocked and finally all the way to tearful.

His watering eyes snap to Syona’s. “Who…who else knows about this, little one?” 

“No one, Papa!” She assures her father. She puts her little hands on his shoulders and leans closer. “He just left it in my basket and I didn’ tell anybody else about it! It’s our little secret!” 

“B-but why…? This is so much…” 

“Well, ‘cause he’s an angel! And like you said: angels comfort you and take care of you!” 

“I…I don’t…how are we ever going to repay this man? Where is he? I can’t…” He trails off as tears slide down his face. 

Syona leans all the way over and gently encases her father in a hug. He returns the hug, one hand still clutching the wallet. His crying increases into soft sobs and Syona’s small hands gently pat at his shoulders. “It’s okay now, Papa. It’s gonna be okay…” 

“Yes”, he sobs. “Y-yes, I think…I-I think so, too, l-little one…I think so too…” 

Altaïr smiles softly and slips away as quietly as he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Syona scenes both here and especially in Chapter One, I kept [Casper's Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8zYrt0c8O4) just playing on loop. I think that song gives just the right amount of sweetness coupled with eeriness for Syona's interaction & thoughts about Altaïr. Little, oppressed girl terrified of an Assassin and yet...said Assassin is actually her very own designated angel. 
> 
> You can tell I like that contrast very, very much, haha. 
> 
> Also, for Chapter One, I was inspired by [this fanart done by Doubleleaf](http://atalayarose.deviantart.com/art/hello-163564265%20Doubleleaf) from way back in the day! Of course, you can absolutely assume that Alty had his blade pulled _in_ the whole time, but I do so love that fanart and I'm glad to write a fanfiction that's inspired by that! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and stay tuned, friends! :D


	3. Adha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first...huge, huge, huge. **huge** shoutout to [SilverAdept](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silveradept) for helping for _so very long_ in suffering and planning and just listening and helping me to bring this fic to life. Holy shit, thank you, Silver!!!!!!!! Much love!!!! 
> 
> Ain't it been twice as long as forever, or no? 
> 
> I know it's been a long time. It's just...this world has been in my head since I was 17-years-old, so it's just so, so, so huge and I have to sort through it, have to make it into some kind of coherent sense. I'm so sorry it's taking so long, ya'll. I do hope you all enjoy this chapter and ya'll be patient with me, huh? 
> 
> Also, I had quite a few people get confused about the time periods here. It's basically just the Third Crusades during Alty's time, but what if we had our modern technology, colloquialisms, etc. Like a "Neo Crusade", if you will. So I put "Neo" in all the time stamps! Hope that helps! 
> 
> Without further ado, raise your hands if you're ready to meet Adha!

**Masyaf, Early May, Neo-1175**

Adha wishes Nidhi wasn’t sick today. Mema taught her a new move called a ‘shimmy’ and she would’ve loved to show Nidhi today. She wants to shimmy with Nidhi, shimmy so hard that the world starts shimming with them and all they can hear are their giggles. 

But Nidhi is sick and Adha can show her tomorrow. Besides, Aunt Ini always says that surprises get better and better the longer you have to wait to share them with somebody, right? Maybe showing her the shimmy will especially help make her friend feel even better when she can come back. 

At least she has her book to be her friend when Nidhi can’t be here. It’s recess time and Adha sits quietly against the trunk of a thick tree as she opens her book. She sits cross-legged in her dress and spreads the large book over her lap and sips from her grapefruit juice box as she reads. 

Every now and then, her dark, eyes will look up from the bright, colorful pages to gaze at the many, many other kids playing on the huge playground. The other kids play queen on the jungle gym. Create and compete in double dutch competitions. Kick and pass a soccer ball. Make a cake in the sand. Flip on their skateboards. Swerve on their roller blades. 

Tomorrow…Nidhi will be back tomorrow. And Adha can join the rest of the kids because she’ll have her own best friend with her. With that comforting thought in mind, she goes back to her book and keeps sipping her juice. The cool, spring breeze wafts through her thick, coily hair and makes the pages of her book lift. Carefully, so as not to wrinkle the pages, she holds them down with her free hand-

The sunlight is blocked almost entirely from her in the same second that her book and juice box are snatched away from her. 

Abbas Sofian, a ten-year-old giant looming over her, holds her book high up over his head, over her head. 

“Whatcha readin’?” He demands. 

His friend stands to the left of him, holding her juice box high up in his fist. 

Her little heart speeding up, Adha tries to glance around the bigger boys in the hopes that she can catch the eye of a teacher. But they stand tall over her, blocking out her view and anyone else’s view of her. Feeling nauseated, she scoots even farther back, to get away from them, but it does little good. 

She works to make her voice sound strong and firm and holds her hand out. “Gimme my book back! An’ my juice!” 

His friend snickers beside him and Abbas closes the book, losing her page, and sneers at the cover. “ _Of the Maiden S-Ssu-Ssuw_ -”

“It’s called _Of the Maiden Ssuwarandari_. That’s why you don’t take people’s books ‘cause you _can’t fucking read_ , dummy shit!” Adha growls. 

The other boy squeezes her juice box, causing grapefruit juice to spurt over her dress, staining it. “Watch y’r mouth!” 

She looks aghast down at her ruined dress and thinks about how Mema got up extra early to iron it for her. How its pretty design is of blue-and-purple polka dots against a light-pink backdrop is now ruined because of the juice. How it’s one of her very favorites…

She wants her best friend. She wants her mother. She wants her grandmother. She wants her aunt. She wants anyone to come and make these two big kids just give her back her things and leave her alone. She wants anyone to come so bad that tears start to well up in her eyes. 

Anyone. 

Anyone at all. 

Abbas looms over her, anger and disgust clear on his face. “So what does that mean, huh? This Maiden-something? Does that mean ‘flat nose’?” 

His friend bursts out laughing, causing his hand to squeeze even tighter around the juice box and squirt more juice on Adha. He doubles over in his amusement, clutching his tummy with his other hand.  
Adha goes completely still at the insult. 

Though her eyes smart even more from the low blow, she glares right back into Abbas’ face and fires right back at him. “No. It means ‘dummy shit that can’t leave other kids alone and has to bring another friend with him ‘cause he can’t handle a little girl that’s not even bothering anyone’. How did you even _get_ to be a big kid with how pointlessly mean and stupid you are?” 

“Shuddup!” Abbas yells as her throws her book on the ground. In the next moment, he grabs her juice box from the other boy’s hands and throws that to the ground, too. “You want me to show you what big kids can really do? If y’do, then keep talking an’-”

“Pick it up.” 

The voice comes from neither Abbas nor the other boy. Both of them turn around to see who the owner of the voice is and Adha cranes her neck around to see, too. 

It’s another boy, a new boy. He’s just as tall as the first two, just as huge and intimidating to seven-year-old Adha, and surely ten-years-old like them, too. He stands with a straight, easy posture, his hands loose at his sides and his shoulders relaxed. There’s a slight crease between his otherwise smooth brow and a downturn at the corner of his lips as he looks coolly at the other two. 

Adha can only stare at him. 

Abbas’ voice sounds like dog poo is shoved under his nose when he replies, “…What?” 

The boy calmly repeats, stepping just a little closer. “Her book. Pick it up. And give it back to her.” 

Abbas’ friend is looking the newcomer up and down, like he’s some kind of alien that doesn’t know how things work on planet earth…how he’s not someone who can tell Abbas what to do. 

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Abbas’ sneer explodes into a full frown as he sizes the other boy up. 

But whereas Abbas is becoming tenser and edgier, the third boy stays calm and relaxed. He stays right where he is, his face only showing about half the disgust that Abbas is showing. 

“I don’t have to do anything to you. Because you’re going to pick up her book.” 

“ _Why_?” 

“Because I just told you to.” 

“You don’t tell me what to do.” 

“I just did. Pick. Up. Her. Book. And. Give. It. To. Her.” 

“No.”

“Do it.” 

“I said _‘no’_.” 

By now, a small crowd gathers around. The crowd soon forms a half-circle around the tree that Adha sits against. Her awe at this other boy-and the numbness that it causes her mind-is only sort of quelled by the renewed feeling of being closed-in, of being shrunk with the presence of some small kids like herself and a lot of big kids unlike herself. 

The new boy and Abbas are staring each other down, now. The boy is as calm as ever, but the presence of so many other kids makes Abbas nervous and twitchy. He loses eye contact, his eyes quickly darting around the crowd, and then back at his offender. 

“Her book is still on the ground.” 

“Yeah, an’ it’s gonna _stay_ on the ground, too.” 

“No it’s not. You’re going to pick it up. And then you’re going to give it back to her.” 

Abbas voice drops down a few notes and his hands ball into fists at his side. “You’re getting on my nerves! I’m not picking up _crap_ an’ no one tells me what to do-not even you!” 

“Yes you are and yes I do. Pick it up.” His voice doesn’t change in tone or octave at all. 

“Why don’t you jus’ go an’-”

“ _What_ is going on here?” The question is fired from a teacher, Mrs. Saamiqa, who is quickly striding towards them with two more teachers flanking her on either side.  
More than half of the crowd of kids hastily scrambles away. 

Abbas is the first to speak, pointing an accusing finger at Adha. “She was bothering me! An’ he was helping her”, he continues, next pointing the other finger at Adha’s rescuer. “I just wanted to know what she was reading and she threw her book at me!” 

Mrs. Saamiqa’s greying hair glints in the sunlight. In her hands, she carries a large clipboard. Her lips flatten and her brow puckers as she considers Abbas’ answer. “And that’s why I heard this young man right here”-She inclines her head briefly towards the third boy-“tell you to ‘pick it up’? And more than once? Please, can you tell all of us what it is you need to pick up?” 

Adha’s eyes follow the two rivulets of sweat that run down Abbas’ face.

“I…I didn’t…I don’t know. He was just bossing me around! He really was! And she wouldn’t share her juice wi-”

Mrs. Saamiqa’s voice grows cold. “You are telling me that this young lady-who is smaller and quite possibly younger than you, was trying to bully you and your friend here?” She turns to look at the friend in question, noting his grapefruit juice-stained hands. Then she turns and notes Adha’s stained dress. “And she wouldn’t share her only box of juice with you, yet your friend has hands full of grapefruit juice.”

Abbas flounders, his voice becoming even higher pitched. “I’m telling you the truth! I didn’-”

“What is your name?” 

“…Abbas.” 

“Abbas _what_?” 

“…Sofian.” 

“Sofian. That is the name of one of our most prominent Master Assassins. So you certainly know better than to behave this way. This kind of behavior is _not_ tolerated and it is _especially_ not tolerated from a future Assassin!” 

The children that stayed chortled and giggled behind their hands, behind their friends’ shoulders. Adha somehow…feels her stomach come just a little bit back up from her toes. 

The teacher turns to look at Abbas’ friend, her eyes and tone still just as sharp. “And you? What is your name?” 

He barely keeps eye contact as he answers, “Sw-Swami.” 

“Swami _what_?” 

He muttered his surname so quietly that barely anyone could make it out. But Mrs. Saamiqa heard and her eyebrow only went up farther. “Huh. So not born of an Assassin. No matter-this is not tolerated either way. If you’re going to act ashamed, then you should be acting ashamed because of what you just did to this young lady here. You are both to go to the office immediately. I will be there momentarily and I promise you there will be even more unpleasant consequences if you are not there by the time I arrive. Do you understand?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yes…” 

“That’s _yes ma’am_.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Now pick up this young lady’s book and give it back to her. And throw that juice box in the trash and wash your hands on the way to the office.” His face burning with a combination of embarrassment, shame and anger, Abbas bends down in front of everyone and does as he’s bid. He holds out the grass-and-sand-covered book to Adha without looking her in the eye. Beside him, Swami quietly picks up her squashed juice box and follows Abbas away and into the school building. 

She turns to the crowd at large. “And as for the rest of you, you’ll find that returning to your activities much, much more fun than joining those two boys.” 

The crowd scatters immediately. 

Mrs. Samiqaa turns toward her, her face softening a little. “Young lady, are you hurt?” 

Voice hoarse with unshed tears, Adha says, “N-no, ma’am. No, I’m not.” 

“Good. This boy.” Without taking her eyes off Adha, she points at the third, remaining boy. “What was he doing?” 

The boy pipes up quietly. “I was-”

Mrs. Saamiqa’s voice turns cold again and her eyes sharply turn on him. “I didn’t ask you, young man. I asked _her_. I don’t want to hear a word from you just yet. Understand?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

She turns back to Adha. “Now, young lady. What was he doing?” 

Adha feels the beginnings of feeling shaken with her limbs like jelly. But she forces herself to speak as best she can. “H-he was…he was helping me. That’s w-why he told them t-to pick up my book. And give it back to me. He was helping…me.” 

Mrs. Saamiqa nods slowly and glances back at the boy, eyes sharp. “Is that true? That’s what you were doing?” 

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what I was doing.” The boy nods slowly, still calm. 

“Good, then.” A true, small smile comes to her face and she looks back and forth between Adha and him. “Since she isn’t hurt, would you be so kind to take her back to her classroom and to her teacher? Allow her to get cleaned up, and then you and her can come right back out here to play. Can I trust you with that, young man?” 

The boy inclines his head. “Yes, you can. I can take her.” 

The teacher turns back to Adha. “And you, young lady? Do you feel comfortable letting him take you back inside? The only right answer is the one that is true to your feelings and comfort.” 

“N-no, I’m…I’m okay with that. I don’t mind”, Adha says quietly. 

“Excellent. We will all see you back out here soon enough.”

 _Flat nose._

It’s over and Adha thinks she can feel like she can breathe again. She’s looking at Mrs. Saamiqa walking away with the other teachers when something catches the corner of her eye. Adha turns to look and it’s…it’s the boy’s hand, open and offered to her without a word. 

Slowly, she places her deep-brown hand in his bronze one and lets him help her up. Even once she’s standing-still clutching her book with her free hand-he doesn’t let her hand go. He leads her out of the playground and back into the school building. 

_Flat nose._

He’s still silent as they go down the hallway, towards the wing where the classrooms are for kids her age. The sounds of their feet seem to echo all through the otherwise silent hallway. Every now and then, a teacher will stop them and ask what they’re doing and where they’re going and the boy will quickly respond in that calm way of his. She feels grateful to him when he speaks because she doesn’t trust her voice just yet. No, she doesn’t trust her voice…

They steal quick little glances at each other, never quite catching the other’s eyes. Adha…wonders what he sees when he looks at her and why he’s…just rescued her. Why he keeps such a warm gentle hold on her hand that she could easily break it. Why he doesn’t walk so fast with his longer legs that she can’t keep up. Why he walks beside her, instead of in front of or behind her. Why he’s just as calm as ever, not at all annoyed or angry that his playtime is being cut into because he has to take this littler kid to her classroom…

“Hey…” 

Adha jerks out of her musings at his soft voice. She turns her head and looks up at him curiously. His eyes are wide and…knowing. Somehow, they are knowing. 

“Y-yeah?” 

_Flat nose._

“You don’t really wanna go to your classroom and see your teacher, do you?” 

Adha’s tummy falls all the way down to her toes again. She knows what will happen when she goes to see Ms. Hadeel. Fretting. Worrying. Hair stroking. Questioning. Soothing. Cleaning. 

Crowding.

On accident, Adha’s hand tightens on the boy’s hand. She slowly shakes her head at the tiled floor. 

He’s quite beside her for a long, long moment and Adha can only hope that it’s okay for them to stand still in the hallway this long. Her grip on his hand never loosens and she’s comforted at how he doesn’t take his hand back. 

_Flat nose._

“Uhh…hey.” He looks at her with a new slight upturn of his lips. “Wanna…uhh…see a surprise?”

Adha blinks. “A surprise?” 

“Yeah. I can…I can show you a good surprise. You’ll like it. I promise.” 

She nods slowly. “Okay…” 

His lips pull up just a little more. He says, “Cool. C’mon.” 

And with that, he turns left, down another huge hallway and Adha finds herself in a part of the school that she’s never gone to before. She draws a little closer to the boy and he squeezes her hand gently in response. Her eyes glance out the huge, huge bay windows that make up the whole of one side of the wall, just as there are in many other parts of the school building. Her large eyes next look up at one of the cheerfully colorful signs hanging from the ceiling…

…And they’re in the big kids’ hallway. 

Her breath catches in her throat and her grip loosens on her book, though she keeps her other hand tight in his. Adha never would’ve known that he was taking her here…

 _Flat nose._

There is no one else but the two of them around as he leads her to one of the classroom doors. He tries the door handle and it gives on the first turn. Adha’s little heart speeds up all over again as she takes in his classroom. It’s just as big as hers, but there is neither carpet nor toys. The desks and chairs, spread out through the room, are much, much larger and don’t sport colorful name tags. Several of the desks hold unfolded jackets, lunch boxes, a book or two, some unfinished work. A few computers desks are to the left, with a huge, marked calendar on the wall above them and a sign-in sheet to the right of them. To the right is a large bookshelf that makes Adha salivate with how full it is, and beside that are two rows of cubbies crammed full of belongings. Directly across from them are two windows that look out onto one of the parking lots, with the teacher’s desk sitting adjacent to them. The whiteboard is full of assignments and diagrams and words that Adha yearns to learn how to pronounce and understand. 

“I…guess you like it? Thought you hadn’t ever been here before, so I just…” The boy shrugs one shoulder as he studies her face. 

Adha turns to him, eyes still wide and unblinking. 

Under her gaze, the boy chews on his lip. She watches as another idea enters his head and he leads her to a desk that’s close to the window. It’s one of the neatest desks in the whole wide classroom. With a grunt, he lifts her up so that she’s sitting atop it, her little legs dangling over the edge. 

She can’t help a gasp of delight escaping her lips. She looks all around the room, feeling impossibly bigger and higher from her new perch. And this time, a smile really does come over her face. 

A big, big smile. 

The boy smiles back at her. “Thought you’d like that for sure. Oh! And…do you like orange flavors?”

Adha, still smiling, turns her eyes back on him and nods. She watches as he goes to one of the cubby holders. He fishes around in it for a moment, and then comes back to her with a cold, orange juice box that’s even bigger than the one she had and napkins in hand. She blinks down at her hand as he gently places the juice box in it. Just as gently, he uses the napkins to dab at her face and wipe as best he can at her stained dress. 

She’s so busy watching his hands work that she barely registers the juice box in her hand. 

But he takes care of that, too. 

“Here…” 

He takes it from her, takes the straw out of its little plastic wrap, bends the straw, pops the straw into the little hole at the top, and hands it back to her. 

Adha tries to work her mouth to thank him, to say something- _anything_ because she should say something right now. But all she can manage is putting the straw in-between her lips and taking a few sips of the sweet, tart orange juice. Her eyes trail the boy as he finishes caring for her dress and then walks across the room to throw the wadded-up napkins in the trash. 

When he comes back to her, he asks softly, “Are you alright, now? Are you feeling better?” 

Adha stares at him for a moment…

…And then promptly bursts into tears. 

He panics and rushes back to his cubby for more napkins. When he comes back to wipe her face for a second time, she can only cry harder, her sobs nearly echoing around his classroom. 

“Hey”, he soothes as he dabs at her eyelashes with a butterfly’s touch. “It’s okay. It’s alright. Those boys aren’t here; they’re not going to hurt you anymore.” 

Adha sniffles and blubbers out, “Th-they called me ‘flat nose’." 

At that, the boy tilts his head and his eyes zero in on her nose. He simply declares, “Your nose isn’t flat. There’s nothing wrong with it at all.” He gently taps it with a finger. “See? I can see it just fine. It’s a…little round button, actually.” 

Adha can only cry harder. 

His face becomes ashen. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings even more! I’m so, so sorry! Please don’t cry!” 

Adha shakes her head as she wipes her hand across her newly-wet eyes. “N-no. I-I’m not hurt. You’re j-just so…fucking kind. Real fucking _kind_.” 

He gasps at her cursing. But in the next second, he’s giggling and warmly tapping her nose again. “Well...thanks. But it’s true that there’s nothing wrong with you at all. You’re actually really, _really_ cute and…really, really wonderful. Yeah. Don’t listen to those boys-they don’t know what they’re talking about.” 

She looks at him. 

Really looks at him. 

He’s one of the most beautiful boys she’s ever fucking seen. And his eyes…

His _eyes_ …

They’re the most vibrantly golden pair of eyes Adha Nasiri has ever seen in all her little seven years of life. They are strong, bright solar orbs softly gazing at her out of a beautiful bronze face. If touching people’s eyes didn’t hurt, Adha would reach out a hand and touch them just to see if they’re real. 

If they’re really, really _real._

Adha breathes, “Well, shit, I’m cute and you are so fuckin’ pretty. You’re probably the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.” 

A dark flush of delight blooms in his cheeks. Softly, he says, “Not as pretty as you.” 

It’s Adha’s turn to giggle. 

“So what do you say I finish cleaning up your dress and you finish your juice box, and then we go back out to the playground?” He suggests, his eyes still shimmering. 

Adha nods eagerly. “Hell yeah!” 

And when the juice box is finished, her dress is just that much cleaner, he’s led her back to the playground, and it’s time for them to go back to their own classes, Adha realizes that she never said thank you and she never found out his name. 

-

Adha cannot forget the kind boy with the golden eyes. 

She thinks about him all of the rest of that school day, and the next day. When Nidhi comes back to school, she tells Nidhi all about him and she asks if Nidhi knows who she’s talking about, if Nidhi knows his name. But Nidhi, fascinated as she is, doesn’t know the boy’s name at all. 

Adha is still thinking about him when she goes home with her mema to her grandmother and aunt after dancing at her family’s dance studio. 

The four members of the Nasiri family are in their kitchen, merrily chatting away as they often do while preparing lamb kebabs and ful medames for dinner. 

Adha has the _very important task_ of peeling and rinsing the fava beans at the counter island beside Mema, who then takes the peeled and rinsed peas and thoroughly mashes them. Aunt Ini is at the other side of the counter island where she mixes the sauce for the lamb kebabs and Granna is at the counter beside the stove, chopping up the lamb. 

Adha starts her question. 

“Mema? Granna? Aunt Ini?” 

All three women look up from their work and smile at her. 

“Yes, _habiba_?” 

“What is it, _jaan_?” 

“What’s on your mind, _beta_?” 

She looks between the three of them and asks, “How the fuck d’you…tell someone ‘thank you’ and also that you think they’re really, really, really pretty and you just, y’know, really, really like them?”

Adha watches the three women’s eyes. They glance at each other first, and then Aunt Ini and Granna glance together at Mema. All three of them have stopped her work. Mema looks back at Adha. 

“Adha, _habiba_ …is this a girl or a boy?” Mema asks carefully. 

“Well…what if it _was_ a girl? Who d’you think it’d be?” Adha asks just-as-carefully. 

Mema smiles. “We would think that it’s your best friend, Nidhi. But you know, Adha, Nidhi likes another girl right now. So you can think she’s pretty and you can thank her for whatever you like, but…it won’t be nice to try to take her away from the other girl she likes. You have to be careful.” 

“Oh!” Adha perks up. “It’s actually not Nidhi, Mema! Nidhi and me are jus’ friends!” 

Adha doesn’t imagine the sigh of relief from her family. Mema clarifies, “Ahh, so it’s a different girl, then?” 

“No…it’s a boy.” 

The three women share another look…and this time, Adha watches how it’s much, much longer than a glance. 

Mema speaks much, much more carefully this time, too. “Adha…is it…the boy who helped you when those other boys were bothering you?” Though Abbas and Swami were suspended and everyone knows about it, Mema still personally made _damn fucking sure_ with those two boys’ parents that they would never, ever bother her daughter again. 

Adha nods. “Uh huh. It’s that boy! So how do I properly tell him ‘thank you’ and tell him I think he’s really, really, really pretty?” 

The kitchen is quiet for quite a long, long while. 

Aunt Ini breaks it with a, “…That boy. That one...of all the boys in Masyaf…that one…” 

Granna stares wearily at the lambs she was chopping. “…My granddaughter is bringing home an _Arab_ boy…an _Arab._ I knew it had to happen sooner or later.”

Before Adha can pout and demand to know how they know this particular boy is an Arab and, anyway, what’s wrong with her bringing home just this _one_ Arab, Mema comes to her rescue. 

“What the hell? No problem if she brings home…this Arab boy. He’s most likely Umar’s boy, anyway”, Mema says. 

“Ehhh…true”, Aunt Ini agrees. She turns to Granna. “Mema, what do you think?” 

Granna nods at Mema. “Sabri is right: if our little one here has to bring home an Arab boy at all, we should be glad that this one comes from Umar.” 

All three older Nasiri women busy their hands again. 

Mema beams and turns back to Adha. “Well, _habiba_ , I think you may be able to find that boy…oh, in the after school climbing classes. And if you want to say ‘thank you’ and ‘I think you’re really pretty’, I think that flowers can be the best way to go, eh?” 

Adha’s eyes shine. She imprints “after school climbing classes” in her mind for later. “Oh, what kind of flowers, Mema? What are the prettiest fucking flowers in all of Masyaf?” 

“Hmm…” Mema thinks for a moment. “Well you see, Adha, all kinds of flowers are the prettiest fucking flower ever if you love it enough and if you gift it to someone with _meaning_.” 

Aunt Ini nods. “That’s right. Absolutely right.” 

“Most definitely”, Granna agrees. 

“So what you’re going to do”, Mema continues, “Is take your time picking out the very best flower that you want to give to that boy. Make sure it’s the very, very, very, _very_ best to you, one of the most beautiful to you. And when you finally give it to him, make sure you give it with all your heart. That way, its meaning will not be lost on either one of you. Understand, _habiba_?” 

Adha nods, but then bites her lip. “Wait. H-how…how am I gonna know if it’s the right flower? The perfect flower? Aren’t all of them fucking beautiful? What if I don’t choose right…?” 

Mema grins and drops a kiss in her hair. “Ah, no, my little one. You’ll know when it’s the right, perfect fucking flower. Trust me and be patient with yourself-you’ll know.” 

-

Adha spends that whole rest of the week trying to think of the most perfect, beautiful flower to give to the boy with the golden eyes. 

But during school, she doesn’t think of one. During the trip to the market with Granna, she doesn’t think of one. During dancing with Aunt Ini, she doesn’t think of one. During a sleepover with Nidhi, she doesn’t think of one. 

Still, Adha doesn’t give up. She thinks and thinks and _thinks_ …

-

Adha finally knows where to find one of the most beautiful flowers in all of the hills and valleys and mountains of her home, of Masyaf. Aunt Ini took her way, way up there on a surprise picnic not too long ago and Adha remembers the way. 

She checked the time listings of the after school classes…and the climbing class ends at four o’clock on this day. While she doesn’t have dancing with her family on this day, that climbing class is going to be done at four o’clock…and that so that gives her just an hour after she gets out of school to find that most perfect, beautiful flower for the boy. 

She knows that she has to hurry, or else she’ll miss her chance to thank him and tell him that she thinks he’s really fucking pretty. 

And so right after school, Adha hugs Nidhi goodbye, and then takes off at a run. She runs, runs, runs…up, up, up, the smaller hills, she runs. She heads deeper and deeper into the hills of Masyaf until she’s right up against the much bigger hills. 

The bigger hills where Aunt Ini took her for a picnic all that time ago.

The bigger hills that she’s not supposed to be on unless she has a grown-up with her. 

But this is an important occasion and, besides, Mema doesn’t need to know. 

Once at the top of the correct hill, Adha stops to catch her breath. 

She looks behind her, below to the great interloping valleys of her home. Her home is something called a city-state (she learned that word just two weeks ago), a big, beautiful town built over many, many years into the valleys and hills and mountains of the Levant (she learned that word in school just last year). Adha takes in how the sepia of the many adobe homes blends mesmerizingly against the backdrop of lush, verdant green that’s the land itself.

And the adobe homes themselves are complimented by the grey-and-white stonewash of the massive citadel at the highest point of Masyaf, all the way towards the back of Masyaf and set up against the higher, harsher mountains that effectively protect the city-state from behind. The citadel is where most of the Assassins live and Adha has the vaguest, vaguest memory of the Master Assassin named Umar that cuddled and tickled her, and then baked her the most delicious cake just because. 

From here, below and in front of the citadel, she can also see the white-and-blue hospital where she hopes to be a doctor someday. The post office. The movie theaters. The bowling alley. The arcade. The school. The central square. The two huge, sprawling open air markets that each encircles another huge, huge ring full of adobe houses. And all the people that busily create a hustle and bustle by walking, driving, biking, and the like to their destinations. 

And so, so many other things and people Adha can see from up here. 

Adha’s home is beautiful. Adha loves her home. 

Her breath is finally caught and she turns to look back at the big hill she’s come to. 

Its rich greenery is blanketed in a mesmerizing purple. And that mesmerizing purple is made of hundreds upon hundreds of beautiful, beautiful flowers. The flowers have petite petals that cloister together on teeny, tiny branches and bloom out of the frame of their stem’s bright green leaves. 

And the shades of purple themselves are a rainbow to Adha’s eyes. They’re violet and plum and amethyst and lilac and lavender. 

Heliotropes. 

Adha reminds herself that she doesn’t have all that much time and so she dives into the hill’s great field of heliotropes to pick one out for the boy. A heliotrope is a perfect flower all by itself, but Adha knows that she has to pick just the right one. 

Yes, _just the right one._

And she’ll give it and mean it with all her heart so that this has meaning. 

She roams deeper and deeper into the vast field as she searches. Her little hands cradle this heliotrope’s small petal, but she finds that it’s frayed at one end. This one has a whole lot of them cloistered on its stems, but the stem is so short that surely the boy would get them lost in his larger hand. That one…well, just isn’t the right shade of purple. This one over here is missing far too many fucking leaves on its stems. And that one isn’t even done blooming. 

As Adha keeps looking, a little smile comes to her face as she thinks about how she doesn’t have to bend down to inspect the heliotropes as the boy would because she’s much, much shorter than him. She’s “fun size”, as Aunt Ini fondly says.

But she needs to hurry…she needs to find that perfect, perfect heliotrope before four o’clock or else she’ll miss him. She quickly checks her little charm watch in her pocket-it’s 3:36. 

_Search, search, search…_

_Hurry, hurry, hurry…_

_There._

This one is the brightest, deepest shade of purple that Adha’s ever seen in her damn life. She imagines that the little, unbroken veins on its dark-purple petals are teeny, tiny constellations dancing up and down the soft, smooth flesh. The stem is perfectly formed and bends at just the slightest angle and its leaves are nearly as green as the field itself. She stoops down low over it, brings her nose close to its petals and deems the scent wonderfully refreshing and fragrant.

Adha is very, very slow and very, very careful as she plucks her chosen heliotrope out of the ground. She brushes the roots and dirt from its base and inspects it, a satisfied smile on her face. She cradles it close to her chest, already imagining it in his hands. 

Yes, this is the one she will give to him. Yes. 

She checks her watch again-it’s 3:52.

“ _Shit!_ ”, she exclaims. 

Clutching the heliotrope to her chest, she turns and tears down the big hill. She runs, runs, runs…down, down, down the bigger hills and then down, down, down the smaller hills, she runs. She heads deeper and deeper back into town. 

Adha doesn’t stop running until she’s all the way back to the school, back to where they hold the climbing classes in one of the school’s gyms. Her little, fluttering heart feels hollow as she watches all of the big kids file out of the gym. 

The boy could already be gone by now. 

She could be too late. 

But Adha doesn’t move from her spot. She stands there, panting and intently watching the crowd for any sign of the boy. 

_He has to be here…he has to be…_

But still more and more big kids pour out from the climbing class and not a single one of them is the boy. Adha’s heart picks up speed all over again and she doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t know how to handle this, she doesn’t know how to take care of his flower-

He’s one of the very, very last ones to come out and he looks just as she remembers him. Just as beautiful, just as strong, just as kind. 

Adha would fall to the ground in sheer relief if she didn’t have to catch his attention. 

“W-wait! You!” She points at the boy with her free hand. 

He immediately stops and whips his head around to look at her. Upon seeing her, the brightest grin lights up his face and those golden eyes seem to catch the sun’s fire with delight. 

He turns to his friends: a girl with alabaster skin, fiery red hair, and pale emerald eyes; a boy about Adha’s age who’s nearly as pale as the girl, but with dark curly hair and electric blue eyes (Adha thinks he might be named Kadar); and another boy that the younger resembles, though he has bronze skin, dark curly hair, and grey eyes that dance like playful clouds. The boy tells them that he’ll catch up with them later and they glance warmly at Adha, wave at both of them, and then set off for the citadel. 

He turns back to her, still smiling. “Hey, there! I remember you!” 

Adha nods, still struggling to catch her breath. “I-I remember you, too.” 

“Uhh…but are you okay? Why were you running? Do you want to sit down?” He asks, worry entering those golden eyes. His brow creases and his head tilts. 

Adha simply shakes her head and walks closer to him. 

He walks closer, too. 

She’s still breathing hard as she unfolds her arms and extends the heliotrope to him. “I…I didn’t get to say ‘thank you’ f-for helping me. For being kind to me. And I think…you’re pretty. Really, really pretty. So…here. And thank you…so fucking much.” 

He blinks with wide eyes down at the proffered gift. Adha almost thinks that he’s going to reject her gift, going to reject _her_ and laugh at her and if he does, she’ll be _crushed_ -

The boy slowly stretches out a hand and gently takes the flower from her. He brings it up to his nose and takes a deep, deep inhale and Adha watches as his lids flutter in pleasure at the scent. Both of his hands cradle the flower close to his chest and he looks down at it as though he can’t believe that it’s his and no one else’s. 

He looks back up at her and asks quietly, “…For…me?” 

Adha nods vigorously. “Uh huh! I-I was almost late catching you ‘cause I was busy finding the perfect one to bring back to you. I wanted this to have meaning. I took a long-ass time. That’s as perfect as I could find. I hope you like it!” 

A dazed smile comes to his face and he cradles the heliotrope even closer to his chest. His voice is quiet with wonder. “I _do_ like it. Very, very much. It’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. So thank _you_.” 

Adha has a feeling that she’s probably just rocketed straight up past the sky and to the stars beyond. She bounces on the balls of her feet and claps her hands. 

“You’re welcome!” She exclaims. “I’m Adha, by the way!” 

He stops completely and just _stares_ at her and she guesses the question before it even comes out of his mouth.

“Uhh…like the sacrifice?” 

Adha pouts. “ _No._ I’m ‘Adha’ like the celebration!” 

“Oh, okay! ‘Like the celebration’?” He tilts his head and smiles at her all over again. “Yeah, I can see that. That makes sense.” 

Adha’s pout turns into a smile brimming with pleasure. “And…what’s your name?” 

His smile becomes shy. “I’m Altaïr. It’s wonderful to meet you, uhh…again.” 

It’s Adha’s turn to just _stare_ at him. “Al…t-teer?”

It’s Altaïr’s turn to pout. “No, Adha; I’m _Al-tae-eer._ Or _Al-tie-eer_ ” 

Adha’s little nose scrunches up as she tries again. “Al-tee-argh?” 

“No…” 

“Al-taerr-urhh?” 

“Uhh…well, maybe you can just call me something else…umm…” 

“I’m sorry!” 

“No, no, it’s okay! Umm…I guess you can call me a nickname. It can be, uhh…” 

“Oh, I know! How’s ‘Alty’? May I call you ‘Alty’?” 

At that, Altaïr’s eyes light up. “Sure! I like that!” 

It’s out of Adha’s mouth before either of them knows what happened, before either of them could think to be prepared for it. 

But most of all, it’s out of Adha’s mouth because she wants to ask it. 

“So since you’re _really_ kind and _really_ pretty and you like me back, Alty, you wanna be my boyfriend?” 

Altaïr’s mouth forms in a perfect ‘o’ with shock. His mouth works, but no sound comes out for a while. Adha can only pull her lips in and wait for him to speak. 

By the time he does speak, there’s just a bit of that flush Adha’s coming to adore coming up his cheeks. But his smile is warm and genuine. “S-sure.” 

Adha’s little heart sings. “Great!” 

She stands on her tippy toes to lightly peck him on his flushed cheek. When she comes back down, his smile is equal parts bashful and happy. 

Adha frowns for a moment in thought. “Shit…I don’ think you can get any smaller, so I’ll grow as fast as I can. That way, I won’t have to stand on tippy toes and you won’t have to bend down, okay?” 

Altaïr giggles at her cursing again. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Adha! You take your time growing. And besides-someday you may even be taller than me and then _I’ll_ be the one having to go on tippy toes, huh?” 

“Well, okay! We’ll just…both grow as much as we can, right?” 

“Right!” He holds out his hand for her to take. 

She beams and slips her hand into his. 

With his free hand, he still cradles her heliotrope. 

-

**Damascus, Late March, Neo-1186**

There is a building. 

There is a building in the middle district of Damascus. 

It is a building without an outwardly-verifiable front door. Or any kind of door at all, really. 

It blends in so easily with the places around it that it is nondescript to most. The whitewashed bricks are the same. The plain, simple flat roof is the same. The two or three or four windows are the same.  
Just the same as any building, this one seems to be. 

Altaïr drops onto the roof of this building. He walks to the middle of the roof, and then crouches down while removing one glove. In three different, seemingly-random places, he taps his fingers. This produces a handprint scanner on which he presses his bare hand against. The green scanner runs over his hand just twice before a section of the roof silently slides open right ahead of him. He gets up and drops into the opening, which closes after him as soon as his body passes through. 

Altaïr lands in the Bureau. 

More specifically, he lands in the Bureau’s lounge area. 

The lounge area is three long rectangles connected in a u-shape. They make up most the top floor. Its walls’ are made of softly-speckled beige bricks. The floor is a polished dark-grey cobblestone. Every last square window is a one-way glass, showing the on-goings of oblivious, disinterested middle district citizens. Mid-afternoon sunlight filters in and splashes onto the Bureau. The hanging lamps give a gentle golden illumination along with the sunlight. 

Every few square feet of the rectangle lounge are living areas. They are complete with sofas and armchairs of varying sizes, designs and arrangements; a small entertainment center with a plasma screen TV, phone, USB ports, and chargers; a coffee table that holds a small potted plant that sits in-between two laptops; a miniature, fully-stocked refrigerator and a microwave atop it; and a small cabinet filled with cutlery and napkins. 

“-GPS not working? Oh my! did you try the…” 

The most-central lounge’s archway leads to the office. It is from there that Altaïr follows the cheery voice of Hossam El-Amin, the Damascus Bureau leader. He finds the busy, elderly man hunched over two keyboards and in front of three computer screens. Hossam’s black headset contrasts sharply against the downy white of his hair. His white hoodie-decorated only by the “B” insignia on his chest-is striking against his dark skin. He has his sleeves pushed up to the elbows as he works; _clickity-clack-clack_ , go his fingers against the keyboard. Altaïr has but one second to register the glance and lifted finger that says “Wait a moment” before Hossam goes right back to dealing with the Assassin currently on the line. 

Altaïr takes off his other glove and unzips his hoodie halfway. He glances at the time. It is 2:11-just enough time so he won’t be late. 

Hossam ends the call with an upbeat, “Thank you for calling! Have a nice day!” He turns in his swivel chair to Altaïr. He blinks and then looks at the clock. “So fast, ehh? And still no city alarm just yet! I didn’t even get a single call from you the whole time! Ahh, Altaïr, you remain quick and efficient as usual!” 

“Just doing my job”, he says. He unzips his hoodie all the way, revealing his Kevlar vest underneath. He pulls his hood off. 

“Well it’s yet another job well-done!” Hossam wrinkles his nose and adds, “I can tell that you waited until the councilman was taking his bath.” 

Altaïr winces and says sheepishly, “I know. Sorry. I’m headed to the shower right now.” 

“Oh, no need to apologize! You went the quickest route to get to your target and complete your mission. That is what counts. Will you be eating here?” Hossam asks cheerfully. 

“No, thank you, I won’t.” Altaïr turns for the archway. “I’ll eat when I get home.” 

“Oh, yes! And when you do get home, please be sure to tell your lovely Adha we all say ‘hello’ here at the Bureau!”

Altaïr gives a lopsided smile. “I’ll be sure to.” 

Another call comes in.

“Damascus Bureau, this is Hossam El-Amin!” 

Altaïr hurriedly heads for the stairs that will take him just slightly underground. And underground is yet another, much-larger rectangle holding individual rooms and ensuites. There are slanted, one-way windows to stave off the claustrophobia that can be suffered by occupants used to being high, high up. Just as with each lounge, each room and bathroom is done in different tastes. Every few feet of wall sports a light sconce that gives a soft, relaxed ambiance to the hallways. 

As Altaïr walks into his ensuite, he pulls out his phone and sends out the signal that it’s safe to call and text. He expects to have his phone blow up within the next ten minutes.

Undressing after a mission is just as much disarming. His white hoodie goes into the portable hamper and three knives, a small handgun, two slightly larger handguns, a small backup phone, his Kevlar vest, and several other weapons and equipment soon follow. 

Finally naked and feeling just a little less like he came out of a sewer, Altaïr steps into the shower. He sets his phone on one of the shower cubbies and sets it to the latest newsfeed from The Beirut Bugle. Next, he cranks the shower knob as hot as it will go as news blasts throughout the bathroom. 

_“Professor Nawwaara Mahfouz, dean of the astrology department of the all-women’s college, the University of al-Fihri, continues to receive several death threats. The thirty-eight-year-old professor of astrology reports that she’s certain the death threats have come about due to her recent and unapologetic advocacy for prospective LGBTQIA students.”_

_“Professor Mahfouz is by far not the first and, unfortunately, may very well not be the last of al-Fihri professors to receive such death threats. Investigations are underway and police are confident the perpetrators will soon be caught. In the meantime, all of us here at the Beirut Bugle keep Professor Mahfouz and her colleagues in our thoughts and prayers._

Altaïr quickly lathers his favorite sandalwood shampoo into his hair. As he scrubs his fingernails into his scalp, he sighs as the hot water loosens his muscles. 

_“A recent salmonella outbreak has prompted a recall from the famous lunch meat brand…”_

_“As of last week, more and more Romani villages appear to have been forcibly vacated, pillaged, and ultimately demolished in the surrounding Damascus area. Investigations have been few and far between even as many wonder and worry about the whereabouts of cherished family and friends. Local Damascus authorities have not responded to a request for comment.”_

He rinses. Shampoos again. 

It is 2:20. 

_“A new app that allows for locating missing car keys will hit the market this…”_

It’s when he’s done shampooing and about to rinse for a second time when Kadar’s personalized Super Mario Kart ringtone sounds over the news. With a wide smile and a wet, soapy hand, Altaïr accepts the call and turns on the speakerphone. 

Kadar’s voice echoes through the shower. “…You’re going to be late again, aren’t you?” 

Altaïr rinses out his hair as he replies, “Possibly. Why do you ask?” He can hear the delightful chaos of home in the background. 

“You’re in the shower. I can hear you.” Kadar snickers. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I…had to take a few detours”, he says as he thinks about Syona, her father, and the long run beneath the sewers. He begins soaping his body with his favorite sandalwood bodywash. “Do you think Adha is going to be mad?” 

Kadar’s voice goes soft. “She’s never mad when you’re late to shit or even when you just plain miss shit. You know that.” 

“Yeah…I just...” Altaïr trails off as he scrubs his back vigorously. 

There are times when he wishes she would get mad. Many, many times. 

Kadar’s voice becomes upbeat. “She’s probably so busy in the back helping everyone else get ready, though! I can’t wait to see the next one.” 

“Which is probably the reason why she wasn’t the first to blow up my phone”, Altaïr correctly guesses. 

“Wait, I’m the first-”

Zahra’s personalized high-speed piano ringtone sounds through the bathroom. 

“Hang on. Z’s here. And yes, you’re the first one”, Altaïr tells Kadar as he accepts the call, while keeping the first line open. 

There’s a low, rumbling purr on Zahra’s end of the line and Altaïr teases, “I have a feeling you’re going to get on me for being late too, but is that your engine I hear in the background?” 

Zahra pops her gum into the speaker and her voice rings out like bells. “Hah! Is _that_ a shower I hear? And you wanna talk about me still in the car? At least I’m halfway home!” 

“But are you really halfway home, Z?” Kadar questions. “I mean, Altaïr’s coming from Damascus from his mission and you’re driving all the way from Tyre from your mission. You don’t even have to do the math in your head.”

Altaïr grins as he bends over to lastly scrub his feet. “Thank you, Kadar. See? It’s always me…” 

“Actually, don’t thank Kadar”, Zahra disagrees. “Because you have to factor in both my early morning-self and my lead foot!” 

“…She’s got a point”, Kadar concedes. 

“Sure, she does”, Altaïr says, the shower water making his voice sound a bit garbled as he rinses off. “…On the lead foot part.”

“Proud of it, too-”

Nidhi’s personalized violin sonata sounds as Altaïr turns off the water and steps out the shower. Accepting the new call, he greets, “I’m on the way, Nidhi.” 

“Oh, great!” Nidhi replies in a slightly-hushed voice. The rustle and bustle of music, fabric and several voices talking at once can be heard in the background. “I think you’ll have time, but you still may be late. Everyone here at home is just bouncing around all over the place! Ah, I do love this time of year! Kadar is out here in the crowds and Malik is coming back from the bathroom soon.”

“I sure am!” Kadar cheerfully confirms. 

Nidhi giggles and then asks, “Are you and Zahra alright? Is Zahra here?” 

“I’m here, sweetie-tootie! Well, uhh…on the way. But Altaïr is the one still in the shower!” Zahra says. 

Altaïr scoffs as he hastily towels himself off. “…I’m sorry you can’t hear the sound of the shower shutting off over your engine. Or maybe it’s your gas tank finally giving its last cough. And yes, I’m alright, Nidhi, thank you.” 

“You know what, Ibn-La’Ahad? Slip and fall over the soap!” Zahra says. 

“Slip and fall over the brake, Mesbah-”

“Kady? Why have they always been so mean to each other?” Nidhi laments. “I mean, the only thing that would make this even meaner would be if Malik was here-”

“-Slip and fall over the water-” 

“I know, right, Nid? And when they’re old asses using rocking chairs, they’ll try to hit each other with their fucking canes just to be mean.” Kadar agrees. 

“-Slip an-”

“Ahh, true. I can see it now…” Nidhi agrees. 

“Oh hang on”, Zahra says. “Malik’s here!” 

Nidhi’s half-sigh, half-giggle sounds over the line. “…Here we go…” 

Malik’s voice booms over the phone. “Z, is Altaïr on here, too?” 

“No, he’s not. Try calling back later.” Altaïr responds. He hurriedly pulls on plain black boxers, a pair of dark blue jeans, and a pair of plain grey socks. 

“Great. Excellent that you’re both still alive. Where are you two, now? Altaïr, you just sent out your signal a while ago…and by the way your voice echoes, you must still be getting ready in the damn Bureau bathroom. And Z? Is that your car?” 

“Uh huh”, Zahra confirms. 

“You win the prize for Observation of the Year, Malik”, Altaïr confirms dryly. He adjusts his plain grey shirt over his torso and then reaches for his simple black belt and begins to loop it through his jeans. Next is his favorite pair of blue-and-white checkered sneakers. 

“Oh, good!” Malik says. “And here’s a novel idea for the both of you: try your best to hurry up and get back home. Adha’s waiting!” 

Nidhi chimes in, “Well, technically, Adha is a little too occupied right now to be properly ‘waiting’. She’s flitting around in here like a hummingbird helping everyone else get ready for the next one and getting ready herself. I don’t even think she’s touched her phone yet to know that Zahra and Altaïr can safely call now.” 

“Yeah, but she’s _going_ to eventually not be that busy!” Malik cautions. “I just came back up here with Kadar and it’s only us standing with the crowd! C’mon, it’ll be a nice surprise if we’re all there for her at the same time for once.”

Zahra replies, “Well, even if we don’t get there in time, she always knows that we hurry as fast as we can. Nidhi, you’re actually in there with her, right? Anything changing?” 

There’s more of that shuffling and rustling on Nidhi’s end of the line. “Oh, no! No changes at all. She’s still her usual hummingbird self here and she didn’t even stop to ask me who I’m talking to. Still no time for her to pick up her phone.” 

Malik’s huff sounds crinkly over the line. “Well, either way, just get here as fast as you can.” 

Altaïr glances at his phone’s clock as he combs his damp hair back. It is 2:28. 

He hastily stuffs the whole of his dirty uniform in a laundry bag from his ensuite. Next, he places that laundry bag in a hidden compartment of a scanner-proof duffel bag. After that come his weapons and equipment in yet another hidden compartment of said duffel bag. He then grabs all of his personal toiletries out of the bathroom and tosses those into his overnight backpack. Out of his backpack, he fishes his car keys and forged driver’s license. 

His backpack goes on his back. Forged driver’s license in pocket. Duffle in one hand. Car keys and phone in free hand. 

“I’m going to my car now. I’ll see you all at home soon”, He calls out to his phone.

He’s met with a chorus of goodbyes, hopes to see him very, very soon, and implores for him to drive carefully, which he returns. And then Altaïr is making his way out to the Bureau’s lounge area. He throws a little wave and a smile to a still-busy Hossam, who returns the gestures enthusiastically. 

And then he’s back onto the hot streets of Damascus. He keeps his stroll casual, unhurried as he heads to the random spot he parked his car. It is 2:39. His thumb swipes through his game menus, searching for a game to play, many of them games that Adha personally downloaded into his phone for him. Boggle, Bejeweled, Farm Heroes-

“Kid! Hey, kid!

Altaïr plasters a polite smile on his face and looks up from his phone. 

Two city guards. 

“Yes?” He asks, polite smile still on his face. 

The guard that looks the most irritated jerks his chin at Altaïr’s phone. “What the hell are you doing on that thing, boy? Walking around, not even looking at where you’re going.” 

“Uhh…” Altaïr feigns confusion as he holds up his phone, which shows the cheery, colorful game menu screen. 

That earns him an eye roll from the other guard. “…Of course you are. Look, there’s still a _Hashshashin_ on the loose and even if you’re on your way out of the city, you need to be more alert, understand?” 

Altaïr blinks and looks around him as though something may pop out at him any time. “…A… _Hashshashin_ around here? I’m so sorry, I was just passing through to briefly visit a relative and I got distracted. I don’t think I even heard the city alarm.” 

“Yeah”, starts the first one. “Well, stop being so damned distracted and hurry up and get on your way if you’re just passing through. Think about getting off that phone for once and you just might _hear_ something.” 

He nods jerkily. “Yes, I will. Thank you, _effendi._ ” 

They depart, muttering about stupid, careless kids that’ll get snatched up and murdered and Altaïr goes right back to browsing games while walking to his car. 

He’s soon pulled his simple dark grey car into the long, long line of cars exiting Damascus at the city gates. It is 2:45. 

He still has just enough time and it would be wonderful to truly surprise Adha, but he misses her voice. 

He misses _her._

Altaïr dials her number. It rings and rings before finally goes to her voicemail. 

_Hey, you’ve reached Adha! I’m curre-Alty, what the hell! I’m tryna record a fucking-ahh! You are so-!_

The rest of the recorded voicemail greeting is filled with nothing but the sounds of Altaïr blowing a surprise raspberry on Adha’s cheek and Adha’s resulting shrieking laughter. Adha is still laughing uncontrollably by the time the _beep_ sounds. 

Altaïr snickers into the phone, “Adha, it’s me. I’m all done and I’m on the way home. I see you still haven’t had time to change your voicemail greeting. But it’s fine-as soon as I get home, we’ll talk about recording you another raspberry. I…was referred to as ‘candy eyes’ at work today. I love you!” 

It is 2:59 when he’s finally cleared with his forged driver’s license and he’s driving out of the gate, out of Damascus. 

It is when Altaïr is turning on his blinker and merging onto the highway for the hour-long drive home that the citywide alarm sounds. 

-

All of Masyaf is decorated and festive and celebrating, but it is the city-state’s huge central square that concentrates all of it. 

The central square is awash with rides and attractions and food stands and _henna_ stands and merchants and games. Children run around with balloons and dondurma and flowers and face paints and prized stuff animals and water guns. People cuddle on the Ferris wheel, scream on the Cyclone, wave their hands up in the air on the Pirate Ship, and express joy and excitement on so, so many more rides and attractions. 

And the celebrating people of Masyaf themselves are a beautifully dizzying blend of Syrians and Iranians and Africans and Palestinians and Indians and Persians and Romani and Israelis. 

Ahh, Altaïr’s people thrive. 

Masyaf’s annual three-day Spring Festival is in full swing on its first day. 

But he should hurry because it’s nearly 4:30...

He has just three minutes to spare by the time he roams deeper into the festival. Just one minute later and he comes up to a raised dais, on which holds a huge throng of dancers in a _khaliji_ dance formation and which has an even bigger, excited crowd in front of it. 

Altaïr finds a comfortable spot standing in the back of the enthusiastic, cheering-and-head-bobbing crowd. A single glance tells him that Malik, Kadar, and Zahra are already in the crowd, towards the front, but he stays where he is so he can quickly spot _her_. He is tall enough that he can see over most of the bobbing heads with ease. From here, he can scan the dancers to find the one he’s looking for. 

But he doesn’t have to scan long. He never does. 

She stands out to him. She always does. 

Her position is close to the middle of the _khaliji_ dance formation of a total of twenty dancers arranged in one long, single row. Her body is one of the strongest, the most fluid. There is a masterfulness and ease in her movements, her body never once showing the slightest hesitation for even a second.

She’s part of the nigh-blinding rainbow of Spring-inspired, colorful _Saudi Thobes_. Days before he left, they stayed in her personal makeup room agonizing over which thobe to wear for the event.  
Well, _she_ agonized-Altaïr just sat on her makeup stool and watched her go back and forth from her closet to her vanity. He alternated between smiling behind his hand and remarking that he was beginning to see her name spelled out in the floorboards, what with all her pacing. 

She promptly flipped him off and threatened to tickle him. 

He shut up. 

He never gave his input; he’s always preferred to watch her. He’s never known what to do with colors, never known how to make any sense of them. But that’s what she’s always been there for. She’s always made the colors make sense. Even as they blended and merged and ran together in a confusing mess before his eyes, she could always separate them. Organize them. Toss them all in the air and catch them in a perfect, seamless blend of sense. 

And Altaïr has always only ever had to wait and watch. He loves to wait and watch her go about the colors. So he sat on her stool and continued to watch her go back and forth between her closet and her vanity. Back and forth. Maybe this green-and-purple one with the flower design? Ugh, not in the mood for it. How about that blue-and-silver one? It has crescent moons on it. Hmm…no, she wore that one last year. Maybe the pink-and-red one with the lace at the bottom? Maybe…

She was messy during her “fashion crisis”. She’s a wonderfully messy person period. Some of the thobes ended up on the vanity. Another cluster of them ended up on the chair across the room. Yet another cluster was thrown over the clothing rack, with its hangers hanging haphazardly. At least two of them always stayed in her hand and she would forget that she was holding them until Altaïr quietly pointed it out. And a good number of them ended up in his lap, where he held them with awe and reverence. 

No matter how many times he touched the thobes, their texture always amazed him. Delicately, he ran his fingers over the smooth, sequined-adorned fabric. It was an orange-and-purple thobe in his lap, with sequins in the design of stars going all the way down the front panel. The festival dress was cool to the touch and he traced the path of the sequins with a single finger. 

Then, with an ‘Ahah!’, she found the thobe she wanted to wear. He beamed and asked her which one it was and she pulled it out for him to see. She asked him what he thought. He told her that it was beautiful and she would look wonderful in it during the festival. But he worried aloud if she would be comfortable enough in it, as she had never worn it before. With a wink and a smile, she tried it on just for him and practiced _khaliji_ moves around her dressing room in front of him. 

Ah. Very, very comfortable. Very, very easy to move. 

And she’s perfect in that thobe, on this stage right now. 

She’s resplendent with her long sheer, golden sleeves that glitter and shine with each upward reach of her arms. The main, front panel of her thobe is a bright fuchsia, with the intricate, beaded embroidery forming into a shimmering column of four multi-rayed suns going all the way down the robe. As she turns this way and that in the dance, so the suns turn all kinds of shades. Neon green at this angle, glistening silver at that angle. Her dress beneath the thobe is sleeveless, its solid orange coloring peeking through the thobe’s v-neck and its laced hem peeking from under the bottom of the thobe. 

Her hair is a glorious, jet black halo framing her face. The incredible mass of tight, springy coils spring over her shoulders and bounce this way and that as her body happily keeps up with the _khaliji_ dance’s rhythm. Altaïr can already feel its beautifully varied texture beneath his fingertips. With a sudden bout of sheepishness, he remembers how he still can’t quite make her properly straight cornrows. She’s let him practice countless times on her head, but no matter how hard he concentrates, they always come out embarrassingly crooked. 

She’s never minded, though. Far from it-she loves the way he does her cornrows. ‘Cutie squiggly wigglies’, she calls them. Then she proudly snaps at least six selfies with him, turning her head this way and that so that all his horrific hair mistakes are on display. Afterwards, she proudly walks out in public with her hair just like that. 

At school they would ask her, ‘Hey, did your boyfriend do your hair again? It’s all crooked’. And she’d (still proudly) respond, ‘Damn straight he did!’.

Altaïr blushes so hot whenever she says that that she calls him ‘Cherry Face’. 

Glistening with sweat from exertion under the spring morning sun, the deep, dark sienna of her skin all but glows, radiating health and vibrancy. Just as he can feel her hair beneath his fingertips, so he can feel the satiny texture of her skin. Her sienna is twice as dark a shade of brown than his bronze. And her skin-just like her hair-always smells of whatever oil or lotion she’s using at the time. Argan oil. Moroccan oil. Shea Butter. Cocoa butter…

Altaïr breathes deeply, already anticipating burying his face into her skin and hair as soon as he gets the chance. By now, he can distinguish each scent and whenever he guesses correctly, she bursts out laughing and flips her hair back. ‘Yep, _albi_. Africanizing you one step at a time, aren’t I?’ 

The bridge of her nose is a strong, straight column ending in the adorable button of her nostrils. That nose of hers is the most ticklish nose on this side of the Levant. Whether Altaïr nuzzles it with his own nose or lightly tweaks it, he’s sure to be rewarded with a bucket overflowing with giggles and chortles. It results in the prettiest of her laughs, too: her shoulders, eyes and nose bunch up tight. Her face splits into a blinding beam and she catches her lower lip between her teeth. 

And there are times…a great, great many times when the grey shadows start to cloud his mind too much. When the colder realities of his work creep over what few, immediate rewards there may be. When the weight of the war and his position in it as an Assassin feels too visceral upon his shoulders. 

It’s during those times-and many more-when he indulges himself in her giggles and chortles. So he’ll keep tickling her nose, then bend over to tickle her stomach and her sides. They’ll usually be on a bed when that happens-either her bed or his-and she immediately rolls around in a halfhearted attempt to avoid his fingers. She kicks her legs and rolls her head against the pillows. Her laughter increases until it cancels out all those grey shadows, all those burdening realities. 

Altaïr needs her laughter just as much, if not more so, than she needs to laugh. 

Deliciously full and wide, her lips are stretched even wider as she beams, exposing her shock of bright teeth. 

And her eyes. 

Huge and luminous, her dark eyes are translucent smoky quartz that now shimmer and sparkle with mirth. Altaïr has spent many an afternoon just gazing into them as she talks and talks and talks away (she talks a _lot_ and he _loves_ it). He gets lost in their beauty as their still irises appear to swirl and swirl with new secrets that he wants to learn, new depths that he wants to explore, and whole new worlds that he wants to be part of. He gets lost so often in her eyes that he’ll forget to pay attention to what she’s saying and her pout will bring him back to reality. 

The stage makeup she wears is visible even from Altaïr’s position in the back. Her eyes are heavily outlined in kohl and accented with bright pink eye shadow, making them even bigger and their irises even starker. There’s just the faintest blush dusted across her high cheekbones. A dark berry-colored lip gloss fills her lips in. Black _henna_ stains in swirls and circles over her arms, hands and feet. She, like the rest of the dancers, is barefoot.

She’s in perfect sync with her fellow dancers and her open-mouthed smile is possibly the biggest of all. The musicians’-who are to the right and below the stage- _ouds, defs,_ and _tabl_ keep up with her and she with them. All three sets of instruments combine to aid the jovial spring atmosphere of the performance. Several in the audience sway and some even clap along to the beat even as they keep bobbing their heads. Most of the children cannot keep their focus on one single dancer, their wide, excited eyes bouncing back and forth between the lively human rainbows. 

But Altaïr’s eyes easily stay on the same woman. He keeps beat in his head as she seamlessly falls into an open circle with the rest of the dancers. One-two, one-two with the limping-like step of _khaliji_. Her left feet balancing on its ball, while the other stays flat on the stage. To the left she moves with the rest of the circle, then to the right. Forward and back. Her smile stays on her face the whole time. 

The _defs_ and _tabl_ pick up speed and she’s whirling around with her arms outstretched to the increased beat. She tosses that jet black halo and its mass spins and spins among all the other rotating masses of hair. Then one-two, one-two forward and back, forward and back. This time with an intense shaking and bouncing of the shoulders and circular motions of _henna_ -covered hands. Twirl and twirl around first clockwise, then counterclockwise and always with those coils bouncing. Always with that wide, open-mouthed smile. 

The _oud_ picks up its speed on its strings to finally catch up to the speed of the two drums. And she moves with the other dancers to undo their open circle and create a wide, open triangle spanning the stage. One-two, one-two, to the left and to the right. 

Her shoulders and hips sway under the thobe as she repeatedly lifts her hand up in the direction of the sun. Up down, up down, while her other hand molds to the shape of her swaying hips. 

A tossing of that halo again…

…And the dance comes to an end with a final beat from the _tabl_. 

The crowd erupts in raucous applause and cheers. Altaïr quietly claps and smiles along with them. 

The woman is breathing just as heavily as the rest of the performers. Sweat beads sparkle across her brow. She flips her hair back over her shoulders, which shake with her laughter. One of the dancers beside her leans over to whisper something to her and they both laugh even harder together. 

Then her eye catches his. 

Those made up eyes widen first in disbelief, then in delight. Somehow her smile grows even bigger. Altaïr smiles right back at her. He keeps quietly clapping along with the crowd. 

She rockets off the stage, jumping over the five steps and hurtling into the crowd. She pushes through the people with muttered “‘Scuse me…whoops! Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Oh fuck me, sorry! ‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me! Boyfriend is home and a dancer is comin’ through!” 

Altaïr snickers and wades through the crowd to meet her halfway. She never could just wait until they could meet backstage, in the dance studio. No, that’s not her. Never has been and never will be. 

And he wouldn’t have her any other way. 

They finally meet in the middle of the crowd. 

His arms open wide for her and she barrels straight into them. Her arms wrap around his neck as his encircle her waist. Her feet are off the ground, but he holds all of her weight easily. They cling to each other, both of them completely oblivious to the surrounding crowd. 

“You’re home safe”, Adha whispers. Her arms tighten around Altaïr and she buries her face in his neck. 

“And you’re amazing”, Altaïr whispers back. 

Adha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for anyone that wants to see a Black woman get it with some sick ass _khaliji_ dance moves while wearing the thobe (...because writing dancing moves can be very, very difficult, lawdeh), [here's a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_imXj7RsCs) to help! Enjoy! :D


End file.
